Ancillae
by Cassie Jamie
Summary: ...This is what it feels like when I cut. These are the emotions I'm normally devoid of... Cursing, selfinjury. Chapter 9 up.
1. Trickle Drops

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.  (Durr.)  I'm not using this for money.  Yatsa, yatsa, and yatsa.

A/N: I don't know what compelled me to write this when I'm trying to finish **two** other stories, but the Tim!muse hit and wouldn't leave me alone!  Oh, and – has the name of Speed's friend been mentioned on the show?  Since I haven't heard one, it's Matthew.

Spoilers: All are fair game up to **Simple Man**.  (The episode _before_ **Dispo Day**.)  I don't think I'm really using anything from the eps, beyond Megan's departure, but I just warn you anyway.

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Ancillae

Chapter One: Trickle Drops

-*-*-

            The knife glides across the bare flesh of my abdomen, a few drops of blood bubbling up in its wake.  And I emit low-throated moan at the sensation.  The water, once contained within the bathtub, splashes over the side since the faucet is still running the liquid into the ceramic vessel.  I'm too lazy to care that it is doing such.

            I am fully clothed, having gone directly to the bathroom upon arriving home, rocking slightly as I mar my skin.  I don't know why I am.

            Somehow, this seems ironic to me.  I had screamed at a friend in my youth, for the self-mutilation I picked up shortly thereafter.  Now I am almost thirty.

            And I still act like a hormonal fucking teenager.

            The implement presses deep.  A gush of crimson blood slips out from the cut situated just above my belly button.  Oh, hell, does _that_ hurt.

            It is the most divine feeling I have ever had.

            The water swirling around me is tinting pink from the many lacerations, which have moved to my arms.  I'm not sure when that happened and again, I'm not inclined to care.  I can actually feel my cares leaking away.

            I normally understand what sets me off – Calleigh's motherly scolding, Eric's persistence at being better, or Horatio's attitude that everything be done yesterday.  Megan's resignation without so much as a goodbye.  Today it was…something else.  Something more.

            Oh, the letter.  I thought I had forgotten.  Silly me.

            _"Dear team,"_ Calleigh had read, _"I'm sitting outside Payless right now, admiring the window full of new shoes.  There's a pair even you'd like, Calleigh."_ The blonde's snickering at the thought had grated on my last nerve, _"Anyway, I realized a few minutes ago that I've been gone a few weeks now and I haven't stopped to talk to anyone.  Find out how any of you are.  So, my sister has demanded I stop and write.  (Which, I think you'll understand, explains why I'm writing on the back of a sale handout.)  I guess my constant wondering bothered her."_

            I stopped then, as I had been preparing to leave the break room.  My darling co-worker continued.

            _"How's my favorite redhead doing?  I hope he hasn't been working himself or any of you too hard."_ H laughed, _"And, Eric – don't sneeze.  By the way, I found your twin here.  That makes two CSIs who can process a scene underwater."_

            A quick round of 'what?!' came and went, before Delko took up where the southerner had left off, _"Calleigh, I swear you're the only person I could go shopping with and get an honest opinion."_

            "Hey, I told it like it was." The accent caused the group to grin.

            _"Since I know Speed's probably already left the room, I know I'll get the truth when I ask – how is Tim?  Don't give me the usual p.o.s. answer.  He's always so critical of himself.  I'm worried."_

            I exited the room then.  I didn't want to hear the rest; Laura told me later that the other three CSIs had called Meg, as she had given them her sister's home phone number, informed her that they were worried about me as well.

            Thankfully, my shift ended twenty minutes later and no one came to the trace lab, where I was holed up.  I had all but ran from the building, hopped into my car, and sped away abruptly, ignoring the boss's shouting.  When I got home, I went straight to the master bath.

            Where I have remained.

            Megan wasn't supposed to leave without saying goodbye.  It just wasn't supposed to be like that, but it was the ending that I got.  Funny…that wasn't how I pictured my mentor parting from me.  Actually, I don't really know how I would've pictured it.  Still, it feels so wrong.

            I guess that's why it hurts so much even now, weeks after she departed.  Megan tore away a piece of me.

            Pity.

            Another slice, this time into the skin of my thigh after I carefully shift the waistband of my pants.

            There's a knock at my door, and as I rise, I relish the pain.  At least I feel _something_.  I limp my way to the source of the noise, "Yeah, yeah.  Hang on a second."

            A voice returns, "You've always been a slowpoke." It is a light, teasing tone and I relax.  I know that voice.

            Thank you, God.

            Dumbly, I open the lock.  And there before me is the woman who is the source of all of this.

            "Meg." I let her in.

            "Hi, Timmy." She smiles weakly, as she motions for me to walk into the living room and closes the door, "I assume you know why I'm here."

            "No."

            The serious look that crosses her face is a bit disorientating, "I just flew from New York, then drove for forty minutes to get here, and you don't know why?"

            I realize all of the sudden that she can't have gotten here in the amount of time _I_ think has passed, so I look to my clock – it's ten at night.  My shift ended at six because Horatio had demanded I go home and sleep.

            "You're freezing." She tells me, as if I'm oblivious to the fact that I have apparently been in the bathtub for, oh, three and a half hours, "Sit down.  I'll get you some clean clothes."

            I figure I have nothing to lose – she knows my secret anyhow.  So I sit and ponder once again.

            Somehow a simple item, a letter, has brought her back.  Yet, she will leave in the end.  It is the eventuality.  For now, though, I think I'll just enjoy her presence.

            She returns from my bedroom and bathroom, arms full of dry clothes and assorted other things she feels she needs.

            "Pants off."

            "Megan…"

            "Grow up.  I have to see where you cut yourself this time." She lisps, helping me out of the soaked-through jeans.  I am so glad I decided to wear black boxers today, or else this would be insanely awkward.

            "I…It felt better on my stomach today." I inform her, as I fight with my head over how to best explain, "The let…"

            "I should've sent that letter directly to Horatio." She mumbles, then slathers an antiseptic onto the wound in my thigh.  The one from earlier.  "You've been laying off your legs."

            "Makes it harder to walk."

            "Have you talked to Tal lately?"

            Oh, Tal.  You mean that two-bit hack who's trying to get me committed because I'm a danger to myself, "No.  I've been busy at the lab."

            "Liar." She knows me better than my own family does.  She grabs the thin, green, cotton pajama bottoms, as well as a fresh pair of underwear, and holds them out to me.  Megan closes her eyes after I ask; I rush to pull on both garments.  I touch her shoulder to let her know that I'm presentable.

            "Shirt."

            I love when she speaks with only one word.  Don't you?  I brush my frustrations aside, and remove the button-down and the undershirt.

            "I'm calling Tal."

            "No!  Please, Megan, he'll commit me.  Please." I beg her.  I almost mean it.

            She backs her hand away from the phone on the end table, "You need treatment.  This is the worst I've ever seen you."

            I shake my head and take up bandaging the laceration stretching down my right elbow to my wrist, "I'm alright."

            Calmly, my best friend reaches forward, "I won't call Tal.  I won't call any one from your family.  But I'm calling Horatio.  He's driving Eric and Calleigh insane."

            "Why?"  
            "You were _noticeably_ upset when you left CSI.  So he is, of course, trying to figure out what on earth is wrong with you." She explains, then dials.

            I can hear when he picks up, the typical "Horatio." coming through.  They have a brief exchange, and I know that he's probably going to end up in my living room by midnight.

            I finish applying the ointment to my abdomen, covering it with a piece of gauze.  She follows with medical tape.

            "Where did you find all this?" I ask, as I indicate the supplies she and I have used to dress the cuts.

            "I keep a steady supply of gauze and tape in my bag.  My nephew is accident prone." She says.

            Oh.

            "You need to sleep." Megan's brushing her fingers through my spiked hair, "And eat."

            "Slept too much lately.  Not hungry."

            She gives me a glare worthy of Death himself, and stands up.  She stretches with a groan.  Strolling into my small apartment's equally small kitchen, she mutters to herself about insolent men.  I know, somewhere inside me, that I should be laughing, but it's only reinforcing what I already am aware of.

            I begin to get to my feet.  I need to get away, even if it is just to my bedroom.

            "Stay right there.  I'm keeping you in my sight.  If I have to tie you to a chair, you are staying where I can see you." She orders from behind me, and I catch the wafting smell from the microwave.  She's found my leftover Cuban from last night.

            Within minutes, she has brought me the last of the Ropa Vieja and Moros y Christianos.  As I stated before – I'm not hungry, but if it will stop her whining, I'll eat.  So I pick at each a little.

            "You're too thin." She comments, sipping some ice tea from a mug.

            "Maybe."

            Meg keeps staring at me, "Tim, please.  Talk to me."

            "I'm fine."

            "Really?  Would you like me to go through the list of reasons that prove you aren't _fine_?" I loathe when she's logical.

            There's another knock at the door, but this time I stay where I am.  She goes and lets Horatio in.

            He actually looks genuinely fearful for me.

            "Tim?"

            I'm a little taken back by the use of my first name coming from him, but I just nod, "Hi, H." Megan sits down beside me, a gesture I know as one of protectiveness.  Protecting me from the big bad Horatio Caine.

            "Caelyn wants to see you tomorrow." He looks pointedly at my best friend.

            "You told me you wouldn't tell!"

            She never turns her gaze, never blinks, as she tells me, "You need to see someone.  If you won't see Tal, then Caelyn's your next option."

            "I do not need to see the shrink at work!" I'm getting slightly angry.

            "You will go and you will try to be good!" She shoots back.

            I cower at her tone.  No, I won't defy her now.  I'll go.  And I'll _try_ to be good.  Of course, I don't plan on trying very hard.  This woman is going to be lucky if I tell her anything about me.  Beyond that which is in my work file's little biography thing.  "Fine.  I'll go."  
            "Good." She rubs my bicep, right above the edge of the bandage.

            Horatio stares at me, "I'm sorry I didn't notice before."

            "It's nothing."

            That elicits an incredulous expression, "You can't mean that."

            "It's nothing.  I swear, H." I tell him, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.  That's when I remember that I never put on the clean shirt Megan brought me.  He can see the various bandaged areas, the old scars.

            "Doesn't look like nothing from here."

            "Well, your view must be skewed then."

            She lays a hand on my arm, which is multi-purposed.  It is meant as a gesture of comfort and a gesture of warning.

            "Oh for the love of…I'm fine!  I promise!" I hate having people fuss over me, especially when I'm perfectly alright.

            "No, you are not!" Ah, now H is getting mad, "Tim, you know what you're doing.  We've seen it on a hundred suicides."

            "I…"

            "You can't argue this with us." Meg interrupts, and looks directly at me, "Do you truly believe this is healthy?"

            "Yes." I am such a fucking liar.  Of course it's not healthy, I am well aware of that.  Self-Mutilation is hardly a good habit to have.  Not gonna tell them that though.

            "You're a liar.  And a bad one at that." She says.

            "No duh." I turn to the other invader in my space, "I'm alive.  You can go now."

            "Nice try, but I think I'll stay the night."

            Oh, really, I wasn't aware that I'd invited you to stay the night.  I wasn't the one who called you to come over to my hellhole.

            "He's staying because I'm going to go grocery shopping.  You have nothing in this place that seems to be remotely edible.  I'm not even sure about the Ropa Vieja you've been eating, Mr. I'm-not-hungry.  And neither he nor I are comfortable leaving you alone."

            "So you don't trust me, is that it?"

            "No." He just has to be the blunt one doesn't he, "Not with all the damage I'm looking at right now."

            "It's not 'damage'.  It's scars.  I could've gotten them anywhere."

            He's glaring at me, "As Megan already said, you are a bad liar.  Besides, I can tell that for your skin to heal the way it has, it would've had to have been cut with a sharp implement." The glare softens, "As much as you don't want to hear this, we care about you, Speed.  We don't want anything to happen to you."

            "Uh huh.  If 'we' care so much, why is it no one…" I trail off.  I won't give in to my anger.

            "No one what?"

            "It's nothing."

            They both stare at me with a look that says 'we-aren't-leaving-it-at-that.'

            "You left without saying goodbye." I'm staring avidly at her, "Calleigh and Eric are always ditching me to go out to a movie.  And I mean it when I say always." They want me to tell them something – fine.  I'll give them something, "And you…I have been trying for just one 'you did good'.  No one ever asks to come over or calls to see if I'm doing anything.  If everyone _cares_ so much, it's a pretty fucked-up way to show it."

            Megan's eyes are misted, "What about Pam?"

            "Yes, let us discuss Pam.  She's my best friend's _aunt_.  She demands I come over at least once a week so she can feed me, where I usually am so exhausted that I fall asleep on her couch.  She refuses to wake me once I am, which is why I'm late for work the next day." I'm getting bitter as I get older.

            Horatio is now staring at me, mouth slightly open, then he speaks, "But you have other friends, don't you?  And your family?"

            "Everyone's in New York." I think of the best way to explain, "I don't go to clubs.  I don't really go to supermarkets unless someone's coming over.  I don't go out much period.  Most of my clothes are things Pam gives me." I remark as an afterthought.

            A tear is slipping down my friend's face, "Don't cry, Meg." I wipe it away, "It's alright."

            "I'm sorry, Timmy." I have absolutely no clue why she's apologizing or why she is crying.  It's extremely disturbing.  I'm not quite sure what to say, so I stay silent.  No one moves for a few moments, until Horatio sits down on the edge of my coffee table.

            She looks up and rubs her eyes, "I'm going to wash my face, then I'm going out.  What do you want for dinner?"

            "Pizza."

            Another glare, "Try again."

            "I don't know.  Pasta?" It doesn't make a difference to me – I'm not going to be eating it anyway.

            "Alright." She walks into the back of my apartment, closing the door to my bedroom as she goes.

            Without warning, Horatio reaches for my arm, startling me until I realize that he's removing the bandage, "It's too tight." He tells me after catching my questioning glance.

            It's true though.  The moment the last bit is pulled away, there is a sluggish pouring of blood and a pins-and-needles sensation takes over.  He blots off some of it with a towel Meg brought in earlier, then proceeds to sigh.  He lifts the tube of antiseptic from beside him, squeezing a line down the side of the gash, before smearing it out and replacing the gauze.

            "How's that?" He asks just before he tapes it.

            "Better." I answer truthfully.  He looks at me closely, trying to judge the validity of my one-word response.

            Megan brushes through the room, her face scrubbed of tears and makeup.  She looks better without both.  She grabs her purse, which she had dropped by the door when she came in, and back-steps to the couch, "I'll be back soon." She's hugging my head pretty much, but it makes no difference to me.  She kisses my hair, then goes.

            I should get used to it now, I guess.  I stare after her for a few minutes more than I thought I would, judging by H's soft whispering.

            "Tim."

            "Speed." I correct him – only my mother, Megan, and Pam have ever gotten away with calling me by my first name.

            "Speed, how long have you been doing this?" He ogles the floor for a moment, then returns his watchful eyes to me.

            "Two months after Matthew died." I reply.  That makes it a good nine years.

            Well, Timmy boy, kiss goodbye any freedom you had.  He's going to make your life hell.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

cj.1@cassie-jamie.com


	2. Beginners

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Ancillae

Chapter Two: Beginners

-*-*-

            It is late at night when Megan returns with bag after bag of groceries.  I am half asleep, but Horatio stubs a toe on the coat rack and I can hear him muffle a curse.

            "Don't you have a daughter to go home to?" I toss at him, as he places a bag full of canned goods on my meager breakfast table.

            "She's sleeping over one of her friends' houses tonight." He retorts, opening a bottle of Pepsi and grabbing three glasses from the dish drainer.

            The two begin the task of unpacking all the foodstuffs, while I continue to stare out the window and hope that I can possibly go to sleep.  It _is_ nearly midnight.

            "Stay awake." Meg tells me when my eyelids droop, while she looks through my cabinets for a non-existent saucepot.  When one fails to materialize before her, she gets aggravated; "I know what I'm getting you for your birthday." It's mumbled under her breath, but I hear what she has said and can't help but grin.

            "Well, I assumed when you requested pasta that meant you had items with which to make it."

            "Sorry to disappoint." I drawl back, trying once again to sleep.

            "Hey, eyes open." The other man tells me, walking into the room to hand me a glass of the soda.

            I take the offered liquid and sip slowly, "Thank you."

            "I stopped by a pharmacy on the way back and got some more bandages, Neosporin, rubbing alcohol…"

            In other words – implements for my torture.  At least she didn't come back with anyone in possession of a medical degree, "That's good." A generic statement seems in order.

            She gives me a look that speaks of frustration, then continues with her previous chore of trying to cook dinner.  I've only got a frying pan, some Tupperware, a couple of sets of utensils, and some china to my name.  All were gifts from family.

            "If you don't go out, you don't have a TV, and you don't cook, what do you do when you're home?" Horatio is trying to tease me.

            "Well, I, unlike the Shoe Queen here, prefer to read." I direct him to what was once a guest bedroom.  It is now my study.  My desk and computer are in there, along with bookshelves and bookshelves filled with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Walt Whitman, Edgar Allan Poe, the odd Forensics book on DNA or fibers, worn yearbooks.

            He disappears inside, and reappears with my favorite book in his hands.  It's the deathbed edition of Walt Whitman's poems.  I had left it open this morning to a certain page, intent on reading more out of it when I got home for the hundredth time.

            The edges of the cover are worn and many of the pages are dog-eared, but it was a gift and I don't want replacement.  I take it he can tell that by the way he carries it gingerly, then begins, "_How people respond to them, yet know them not,_" He pauses, probably trying to digest the reason why this particular part of the poem is highlighted and underlined, "_How there is something relentless in their fate all times,_" His speech cracks a bit.  He reads the next line, and my voice joins his for the last, "_And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great purchase._"

            I shrug my shoulders when his line of sight crosses my own, "Beginners was the first poem of his I ever heard.  Matthew used to read his favorites to me during study halls.  He loved Walt Whitman."

            Megan's gaze is boring into my back, "You never told me that."

            "You never asked." Is my instant comeback.

            She nods at that, "True.  I always thought you liked Poe better.  You have that giant book with all his works."

            "My younger brother bought it for me.  We've been working on our relationship for the last year, and I made the mistake of telling him I can recite The Raven from memory." I silently applaud her nod and grin, but grimace outwardly when she comes to the couch with an omelet.

            Normally I wouldn't care, but it wasn't made the way I like them – egg substitute, goat cheese, and lean turkey.  No, this one is made with normal eggs, and filled with chemically-colored yellow American cheese, greasy sausage bits, and red pepper.  I know she won't leave me alone until I eat something, so I take a forkful and force it down.

            I hear her breathe out, "Now that wasn't so bad."

            "This is a heart attack waiting to happen.  But you won't leave me alone if I don't eat." I inform her, and cajole some more down my throat.  I have confidence that it will stay down, despite how much I don't want it in me.

            "So long as you know."

            The frying pan is heated twice more, and my two captors settle down to scarf their meal.  As they do so, I attempt to stand up.

            "Where do you think you're going?" Horatio must've swallowed before the woman did or I would be getting shoved back onto the cushions and lectured.

            "I have to use the bathroom."

            Calmly, he places his plate down on the end table beside the chair he is sitting in, then rises.

            "What are you doing?"

            "I'm taking you to the bathroom." He gives me a look that says there is no choice in the matter.  Apparently, I'm to have a bodyguard now.

            "Never mind."

            He grabs my unmarred arm as I begin to lean back into the seat, releases me and resettles into the chair, "This is good, Meg." I can sense the awkwardness between them.  Horatio didn't take her resignation too well either.

            "Thanks." I know she wants to mention that Sean had taught her rudimentary cooking skills, but she holds it in.

            "Sean would've liked these." I remark, hoping she doesn't see it as an insult.

            She nods, "True.  The more fattening it was, the more he liked it."

            I mash up the last of _my_ disgustingly fattening dinner.  She'll think I ate more than I did that way.  My eyelids start to droop again, as I all but drop the plate back onto the coffee table.  I feel a small, feminine hand brush through my hair as I drift off.  I hate it when she does that…

-*-*-

            My dreams are a constant in my unstable life.  My mother doesn't understand when I tell her about work.  _"You always do the same thing.  How can it be so unsteady?"_ She says to me, _"Now if you were working here with your father and I…this business…"_

            She doesn't have a clue.

            But my dreams are my last safe haven from reality.  It lets me breathe, listen to the poetry I have memorized over the years whisper through my mind in the voice of friends and family.  The ones I like.

            Unfortunately, with the dawn comes my inability to sleep longer.  Not on this couch, in any case.

            Horatio and Megan are sitting at my breakfast table, sipping coffee and orange juice respectively.  They are both staring across at each other, a small smile on each of their faces.  I don't want to spoil the moment, and I close my eyes again.

            "I saw that, mister!" Meg's declaration forces me to look at her again, "Good morning." She approaches me with a plastic bag.  Gee, I wonder what's in there.

            At some point during the four hours of sleep I've gotten, my boss has apparently returned home for more comfortable clothes.  Now he is wearing dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt.  The necklace around his neck is one I've seen many times before when his daughter is around, as it was a gift from her a few Christmas' ago – a simple gold chain with a single charm of the letters H and G entwined around the other.

            "Morning." He tries to smile as she has, but he's exhausted and it shows.  They both begin the arduous job of cleaning and redressing all of my wounds, "You do realize we can't keep doing this, right?  At some point we have to take you to a doctor."

            I nod, "I understand." I do, but it, much like my appointment with Caelyn today, will not be done willingly.  When they are nearly done with my arm, I begin yawning.  I can't help it.  Like I said – I'm tired still.  I never could sleep on a couch…with the exception of Pam's, but her couch happens to be a daybed.

            "I would've sent you to bed, but I didn't want to wake you." Meg tells me, "You looked…"

            "Asleep?" I offer without humor.

            "Content." She connects her eyes to mine, "You haven't slept like that in ages, have you?"

            "No." I'm not stupid enough to lie about _this_ to her.  She knows the answer – she wants me to say it out loud, "Not since the Clan Lab…I think."

            She looks at him, and receives a nod of 'I'll-tell-you-later', "When was that?"

            "January."

            "That's not so bad.  It's only a month." She lisps, and I remember that she's seen me in much more cranky states.  I'm a bastard when I haven't slept well.

            Horatio is behind the couch, just out of my peripheral vision, so he startles me when he speaks, "I cleaned up your room and put new sheets on your bed."

            "Fuck.  Don't do that." I clutch my chest and breathe deeply, before asking, "Are you going to follow me into the room?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            He cocks his head to the side, "You know why.  We've taken all the sharp things we could find and hidden them, but you're a highly intelligent man.  And you're desperate."

            "Then I'm staying here."

            "You can't sleep on the couch.  I know you don't get more than a few hours of rest when you do." Damnit, Megan Donner!  Shut up!

            Captor Number Two reaches forward and pulls me to my feet, which jerks the healing gouge in my thigh.  I am torn between the pleasure it brings and the realization that for once I actually feel bone-deep pain.  I moan.  I'm not sure why I do.

            "Timmy?"

            "I'm fine." The response is automatic at this point.  And moot as hell.

            He waves her off as she tries to advance, helping me to get my arm around his shoulders.  Some times it helps to be the same height as the boss.  Slowly, he shifts me until we can maneuver our way forward.  Which we do so, stopping briefly to open the door.

            'Cleaned your room' was an understatement.  This was a complete overhaul.  My linens, which had once been white and somehow went translucent, have been replaced by dark blue ones.  I don't know where they found the new comforter that's piled at the foot of my bed.  The clothes that had been all over the floor are in the hamper I didn't realize I owned.  And the magazines that were previously thrown haphazardly on my dresser top and nightstands are now neatly stacked on the ground.

            "Thanks." I grunt, trying to get in between the sheets without help.  I'm not successful – one of the bandages catches the sharp edge of the table, ripping the gauze away and reopening the wound on my arm.  I am fascinated by the blood for an instant, than remember where I am and what is going on.

            H aids me the rest of the way into the bed.  He gets out of the room for a moment, then re-enters with a fresh roll of the annoying fabric and more medical tape.  We don't speak while he fixes what I have undone.

            "Thank you again." I am half-asleep on my side when he rises and begins the trek back to the living room.

            "You're welcome." He pulls the blanket up and around me, "Get some rest.  That's an order."

            I find a bit of laughter left in me, and watch him go.  I am well-aware that he doesn't close the door behind him.  He's testing me, probably after making Megan see some sort of twisted reasoning.  She's never been one for intangible things.  She needs the science.  With me, she gets both and that's why it scares her.  I know it does because I can see it in her eyes.  She can't understand the cause, but she can see the effect.

            As I drift off once again, I see Horatio come back in and sit down in the armchair beside my dresser with the book of poetry from earlier in his hands.

-*-*-

            There's a soft lull of breathing and flutter of pages when I next open my eyes.  I know straight away who it must be, and with that conclusion drawn, I can safely assume that the body curled in the opposite direction is Megan.

            "What time is it?" I graze a hand over my face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep from my expression.

            "Nine."

            "Morning or night?" I suppose it could be considered a stupid question, but I have, on random occasions, slept through the entire day and woken up in the middle of the night.  Not entirely helpful since my shifts often begin at six a.m.

            "Morning."

            I groan and start the process of sitting up, "This usually isn't so bad." I keep my tone low.  She's lost enough sleep over me for two lifetimes.

            The boss is silent as he gets up from his chair and guides me to the couch once again.  He continues to stand, "Now explain to me how it _usually_ is." I can see that he's trying to act as natural as he can.  Poor guy.

            "It's probably the cream." I sit back and relax a tiny bit, "Normally, it doesn't hurt.  Then again, I like the sensations it gives me." I stop, breathe, and speak again, "But with the two of you here, I can't…it doesn't feel right."

            "Okay." He's processing what I've told him.  Dear God, I feel an interrogation coming.  I'm not disappointed, "I can understand why you started, why you continued, but I don't understand why you are still self-mutilating."

            Have I mentioned that I hate it people put it like that?  "I feel."

            "Feel what?"

            "Feel.  Period." I look down at my hands.  I know he's getting more confused, so I try to explain further, "I feel pain.  I feel release.  When I haven't done it, I am dead.  Emotionless."

            He closes his eyes, rubs his face, then looks back at me, "Do you feel like that all the time?"

            "Every hour of every day."

            "Tim, _please_, let us help you." He sounds heartfelt…so I'm working on blocking him out, "Megan wants to come back.  She wants to be here for you.  And I know you don't think it's true but I do consider you to be my friend.  I don't want anything to happen to you."

            "I don't need help, H."

            Oh, shit.  Now _he_ looks like he's going to cry.  What am I doing wrong now?

            Rubbing his eyes to cover the faux pas, he sighs, "Caelyn is expecting you at noon.  And despite what Megan thinks, if you have to spend some time in the psyche ward, then it'll be done."

            "Really?  I wasn't aware that you are in charge of my life." Now I'm pissed.  Calm to enraged in two-point-two seconds.  I do not take kindly to people who think they can order me around because they're older than me or they're somehow above me.

            "I'm not, but the state can force the issue if they feel your life is in danger.  Or I could call your parents and find out what they think."

            "You wouldn't."

            "Try me." He's provoking me, then shifts forward and kneels in front of me, "Speed, I am lost here.  I don't know what to do.  I can't leave this alone, but you're not a child so I can't make you do anything.  So tell me what to do."

            I wasn't expecting that, and I know that telling him to fuck off is out of the question.  I see the look of fear and hope plastered onto his face.

            It's nearly ten years that Matt's been gone and, yet, I mourn him still.  Ten long years.  I don't care much for making new friends only because I don't want to lose them either.  And then there's the fact that I'm acting like someone half my age.  Then add Megan into the fray…all the pain I've caused her when she was trying to move on after Sean.  I don't even know half my family anymore.

            "Tim?"

            I shut my eyelids, blocking out the light of the harsh reality I've found myself in, "Help me, Horatio."

            His hand moves to grasp one of mine and I feel two warm tears slide down my cheeks.  I haven't hit bottom.  No, not yet.  I'm still rational enough to know that I should be seeking help. 

            I can hear Megan trying to be soundless as she cries.  It isn't working.

            I just don't want to cause her any more grief.  She's all I have left.

            She walks into the room, her eyes already red, and sits next to me, "Oh, Timmy." Her arms go around me and I gratefully bury my face into her neck.  She's whispering sweet nothings to me, H is rubbing my back.  I don't know why this feels so good.  For some reason it does, and that is slightly disturbing.

            Shit, this is what it feels like when I cut.  These are the emotions I'm normally devoid of.

            I actually like it.

            Too bad it's going to end soon.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

cj.1@cassie-jamie.com__


	3. Twilight

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Three: Twilight

-*-*-

            By ten o'clock, I can no longer ignore the urgent need I have to use the bathroom.  My damned pride is about to take a hit.

            "H.  I…Can…" I growl at my inability to ask a simple question.

            He looks up from the open fridge and seems to understand without any further statement from me.  Which is just fine because any time I open my mouth, I make problems.  His hands lace with mine and he pulls me up.  I don't need the help, but I like the touch.  It's human.

            Somehow we make it to our destination without Megan being aware that we've left the room, and he politely turns away while I attempt to relieve myself.  Once I do, I let him know I'm decent and wash my hands.  I don't know why but my eyes are attracted to the tub.  I loved it once.  It's nothing special.  Just white ceramic, but it betrayed me in the worst of ways.

            "Speed?  You can bathe you know.  I don't think there's anything…" His brow furrows as he tries to recall if there was anything dangerous in the vicinity.  I don't really care.  I'll use Pam's shower tonight if I can rid myself of these two.

            "I'm fine." That phrase has lost all meaning to me and probably every person within a two-mile radius of this apartment, "I don't smell incredibly bad, do I?"

            "No.  Not yet."

            Oh, the humor.

            "Caelyn's the one everyone likes." I don't know why I said that, but it comes out before I can stop it.

            "She is." His hands are drifting to his hips.  I don't think he even realizes that he's doing it anymore.

            "I'm warm."

            He touches my forehead, "You don't have a fever.  I'll turn the AC up when we get back into the living room." I should seriously just move my bed out there.  It would save time.

            My stereo suddenly blares out Nirvana, and I revel in Meg's small shriek.  As we return, she is scrambling through the buttons, presumably looking for the volume control.

            "Turn the knob counter-clockwise." I instruct her.  My eardrums are happy when the sound lessens.

            She frowns when she hears the lyrics, and searches for something else.  My collection is made up of mostly rock, punk, and heavy metal.  I'm not big on the crap from the radio.  After looking through all the titles twice, she does something I wish she'd do with me – give the fuck up.  She whines to herself and turns it off.

            Stepping my way in the kitchen, I note that H is still following me, but ends up sitting at the table as it gives him a good view of everything in the room.  Which screws over my plans.

            I know there is one knife they didn't find.  It's a switchblade I'd bought a long time ago to give to Matt's uncle.  It was meant to be a repayment for letting me live with him.  Didn't work out that way.  Its purpose now is the same as the ones that cut food, as the razor I'd had in my bathroom until yesterday – to make me human.

            "It's Saturday.  Shouldn't you be home?" It's a diversionary tactic covered by a veil of curiosity.

            "No.  Yelena demanded she have some time with her niece." He responds quickly, then narrows his eyes, "It's not there, by the way."

            "What are you talking about?" A spike of both fear and need race through me.

            He stands and lugs his way to me.  Once at my side, he pulls the tiles away.

            The blade is gone.

            "How'd you know?"

            "He didn't.  I found it by accident last night." Megan appears in the room, one hand rising to my shoulder.  I flinch away from her touch.  I am not very happy with her for taking away my last escape.

            I suddenly am hit with the overwhelming need for air.  Have to get away.  My feet are moving me before my brain registers it and I find myself on my balcony.  I grasp the white railing as tightly as my fingers can.

            "TIM!"

            It's a screech from my friend, who has caught me with the one weapon they are unable to take from me.  My nails are a rather interesting approach.  I haven't done it since the bombing case.

            She wrenches my hand away, "Horatio?"

            "I'm calling her right now." He's in my bedroom, the cordless already dialed.  Any ideas to who he's calling?  "Caelyn McGavin, please."

            "No.  I won't go!"  I sound all of five years old.

            He has a brief conversation with the psychologist while Meg trains a hard stare at me, "You are going to get in that car, right now."

            "And if I don't?  You don't rule me!  Hell, you're going to leave me again anyway.  So why don't you make it sooner than later and Get.  Out.  Of.  My. Home."

            She blinks, "Christ, is that what you think I'm going to do?  Leave you again?"

            There are those fucking tears again, "Stop it." And I glare.  I swear I can see any hope of changing going right over the side and dropping the three floors to the pool.  I've just gotten rid of my best, and pretty much _only_ friend.  Now to work on the redhead.

            Or so I think.  Her hand closes around the front of my shirt, and my face is pulled to almost a hair of hers, "Timothy Jairus Speedle, listen to me _very_ carefully.  I made a mistake when I chose to leave.  I screwed up.  And in the process I hurt you badly." She pulls more of the fabric into the bunch, "You are extremely important to me, so I will make sure you get what you need.  Horatio's been trying to convince me that you aren't any different than others who do this, that you _will_ become desperate, and I didn't want to believe him.  But the evidence is right here.

            "Like it or not you are stuck with me forever now.  I won't let you kill yourself of things that you could never have controlled." She huffs, freeing me.

            That wasn't like her.  Maybe she won't be ditching me just yet.

            "Ready to go?  Caelyn said she can take him as soon as we get to CSI." The boss is standing in the doorway to the outside, staring at she and I as we continue to eye one another.

            "Go get in the car." Her previous tone of impatience has been replaced.  Megan's back, her emotions eddying under the surface.

            I sigh, shrug, and start for the door.  Might as well not fight now.  I know enough to pick my battles.  Within minutes, I have reached the vehicle that will bring me to yet another judgmental person.  She opens the back door for me and helps me in.  I don't need it, but her fingers keep brushing across my wrist or my neck and I loathe when it ends.

            They _had_ to break into my life and turn me into some sort of fucking needy creature.  I didn't crave anything before.  Not even the stroke of my knives.

            H slides in next to me while she puts it in gear.  I realize this must be her rental.

            "Here." He hands me a rubber band.

            "What's this for?" I take it as I ask, and look up to him.

            "Caelyn said it might help.  When you need to, snap it lightly." He flicks his gaze up to her for a moment, then back at me, "I haven't told Calleigh and Eric anything about what's going on.  They're concerned because of my behavior and yours yesterday, but they are waiting for you to talk to them."

            "Oh." I'm busy snapping, pulling it back a good inch or two before I release it.

            "Lightly." He reminds me as if I am too dense to recall what he said.

            "Better like this."

            His calloused hands stop me.  They don't let go.  Thank God we're only five minutes from CSI when he does this.

-*-*-

            Twelve is decidedly _not_ my favorite hour.  Neither during the day, nor during the night.  I hold it in especially high contempt right now.  Caelyn is talking to the boss and his co-conspirator outside the door.  I hear snippets of their conversation, and am straining to listen to more when she turns.  Entering the room, she smiles, and begins as though I don't realize she was just talking about me behind my back.

            "Hello, Tim."

            I glare at her, "It's Speed.  You've worked around us enough to know my name."

            "True." She smiles.  This is funny to her.  "Megan's told me about what's she's witnessed and I've talked with Horatio." She's going in for the kill… "And I've spoken with your previous therapist." There it is.

            "What'd he have to say?"

            "I never much liked Tal.  He's too apt to say that someone needs to be institutionalized, when they just want to talk."  Alright…maybe I'll give her a chance, "So what's your side to this?"  Dear heavens and the powers that be – did she just ask for _my_ side of this?

            "My side…my side is that I'm fine.  I know what I'm doing isn't good and I'm trying to stop."

            3…2…1…

            "One of the things your friends told me is that you are a bad liar.  I'm glad to see they were correct.  Lying doesn't solve problems."

            I don't know how to reply except to continue my story, "I suppose they told you how long I've been cutting?"

            "No.  I prefer to hear such things from the people I'm speaking with." She skillfully avoids saying the word patient.  Caelyn's got my attention now.

            But I'm not going to give her that information at this session.  It was the mistake I made last time.  I told him too much because I was too quick to trust him.  I won't do so again.  "A long time." I sigh when she doesn't press for more, "My family doesn't know, even though my parents have both seen the cuts.  I think my brother might have an inkling."

            "You have a brother?"

            I raise an eyebrow.  Reason being that she has asked about my brother instead of my parents, "You didn't read…"

            "I don't like reading up on people.  I sometimes become judgmental when I do, and in this position, it could stand to be dangerous."

            Finally, someone who makes sense, "His name is Jude.  He's almost seventeen, so I guess he's not really so little anymore."

            "Seventeen…what I wouldn't give to be that age again."

            "Me too." I had hoped the train of thought I had would stay on that wonderful track of my brother.  Too bad it derailed.

            She's staring at me now, trying to gauge me by the looks of it, before she asks, "What happened when you were seventeen?" She must've noticed the tone of voice I took on when I replied to her.

            "Nothing happened when I was seventeen." The truth.  Elegantly arranged.

            "Eighteen then."

            How the hell did she know that?  Oh, yeah, she talked to Megan.  My best friend was bound to have mentioned something about Matt, "One of my friends got paralyzed." I can't stand the green eyes that are sucking me in, so I turn away, "We were close.  We'd gotten into the same school, going to roommates, and for the summer we'd planned this great trip to Europe.  We were going to go to England and then walk all through France, maybe go to Belgium.  Just travel, ya' know?"

            She smiles warmly and I wonder why it seems so familiar.

            "But everything got fu…screwed up.  I ended up going to college to find some way to help him.  He couldn't go because of the quadriplegia, but he was a fighter.  I studied, he had multiple surgeries." My face has some how risen from the floor, but I return it quickly to where it should be, "I was in my sophomore year when they called me.  I had been out of class for five minutes when my one of my friends came running across the commons.  He was all out of breath but I knew what he was going to say."

            Okay, that's enough for today.  I shut my mouth and look behind me.  Almost all the doors in the building are made with glass and this one is no exception.  For the illusion of privacy, she's covered it with sheer fabric.  However, I know those profiles like the back of my hand.  H and Meg are waiting for me.

            "Planning your escape?" She chides.

            "I've always dealt in my own way and this isn't something I'm comfortable with."  Of course, my way of dealing with things is the root cause of why I'm here now, isn't it.

            She nods, "Tal probably didn't help things in either department." She stands, "Well, if you're looking to go, then I won't keep you.  I would like to see you again."

            "I'm working tomorrow."

            "Horatio may have other ideas on that."

            Touché.  I should've realized that.  "Then I guess I'll see you at noon tomorrow." I tell her, then start to stand when she reaches out to touch my forearm.  And of course it was the bandaged one.  I flinch away, and pull at the sleeve so she can see.

            She looks shocked momentarily, then concerned, "I'm sorry.  They told me you did a number on yourself this time, but they didn't say where you are injured." I don't utter a word, "I wanted to ask if you'd like to pick a different place.  I'm not very fond of this office."

            "I'll think about it."

            I'm released from her clutches, and practically dash out of the room – and into Megan's arms.

            "Hungry?" She probes.  I ate at ten p.m. and midnight, yet she's trying to get more in me.  I wonder what it'll take to get her to _lay off_.

            "Are you planning on asking me that every two hours?"

            She shrugs, "You're thinner than I remember you being." Peering over my shoulder, she must see someone and begins walking toward the door.  I follow out of, if nothing else, practice.

            "SPEED!"

            Oh.  No.  I don't want to be rude, but I really am not in the mood for Calleigh, "Hi."

            "Laura was looking for you." She's working on being especially nice, trying to cover for whatever she perceives she can hide from me.  Unfortunately, I can tell my secret is no longer of that status – she knows.

            Her facial expression changes, when my gaze flickers away momentarily, "I'm sorry."

            "For what?" As long as she doesn't tell me what Horatio told me, I'll be…

            "For not noticing sooner."

            I groan, "Don't.  Alright?  Just don't.  I don't want any more apologies, I don't want any pity.  Tell Delko that."

            She's about to say something else, and I know it's another 'I'm sorry' when her lips purse together.

            "What?"

            "We were talking earlier.  Eric and I." She sighs, "We just wanted to let you know that if you want to go to dinner tonight, we've got an extra reservation and we'd really like to have you come with.  I promise."

            Because your promises _always_ come through in the end.

            "I just want to go home and sleep right now."

            The girl nods, and hugs me, "I mean it though.  If you change your mind, you know how to reach us."

            I am grateful when Megan steps in.  She deflects the other's questions, and with a dull smile, takes my hand.  I am led from the building with Horatio taking up the rear.

            "Why did you tell them?" I ask once we are back in the confines of the car.

            "I didn't.  I promise, Speed, I would never do something like that without your consent.  I told you that before." He's startled by what has just happened.

            "Well, they had to have found out from someone!"

            The car hasn't moved from the parking spot.  That's when I feel the worst betrayal yet.

            "You told?"

            She turns in her seat so she can see both he and I, "They started putting two and two together and called me.  You scared them with the way you left, and then Laura talked about the 'cat scratches' she saw on you." She closes her eyes, "They knew you don't own a cat, and they thought you might be doing drugs."

            "At least if they thought that, I wouldn't have them treating me like a fucking porcelain doll!"

            "Megan, let's go." The voice of reason seems to be the man beside me today, and she nearly hits someone as she reverses.

            He's rubbing calm circles on my wrist.  I abandoned the rubber band in Caelyn's office.  It wasn't enough to make me feel.  "I'd rather be on drugs." I mumble under my breath.

            "It wouldn't make things any better or any easier." He lisps.

            I am so drained from the day's events that it is a job in of itself to just keep my eyes open.  All these years of cutting have left me anemic.

            "We're only a few minutes from your apartment or I'd say you could go to sleep." He's teasing me.  I prefer it to the intense seriousness everyone's been displaying.  His fingers begin to withdraw to his lap, and I hear a foreign sound rumble from my lips.

            I think I whimpered.

            The fingers return to my wrist.

            Why must my life be so fucking difficult?  I'm not a bad person, am I?  I treat kids well, the few women I've dated said I was a hopeless romantic, I give to charity when I have a little extra in my account.  Yet somehow, I'm the one that has become the screw up.  Things have not turned out the way I thought they would.

            Megan speaks and I assume I said the last line aloud, "Nothing ever does.  You just have to make the best of what you are given."

            The car bounces as it goes over the speed bump at the beginning of the complex, and is then parked in a spot marked 'Visitor'.  I dash as fast as I can to the elevator.  I forgot H was a cop at one time – man, can he run.  I wasn't running from him though, and he has to know it as he says nothing to me when he catches up.  Nor does she.

            I stab the call button, and the doors automatically open with metallic precision.  H and I step in, "Meg?"

            "I can't cook with the few things you have, so I'm going to borrow some from Calleigh." She says, "I'll be back soon.  Play nice."

            "Yes, mom." He throws back, and she wheels.  I am momentarily overcoming with the desire to grab her arm, so she cannot leave me again, but I yell at my mind to shut up.  She said she'd be coming back.  The doors slide shut, the gravity pulling us down when we begin moving.

            I sigh, and stare to the floor.  It pings twice as we rise to the third floor.  It opens, and we slip into the hallway.  My neighbor is standing outside my door, "Mrs. Jahner?"

            "Oh, Tim.  There you are!" She smiles, her blind eye quivering, "Your father dialed the wrong number again.  He asked that I tell you to call him."

            She begins her retreat, and I call a thank you to her.  Despite what she thinks, my phone number is not the same as her own and my father only calls Marge when he doesn't wish to speak directly to me.  I am well aware of what he's going to say, so I open the door and make no motions to use the phone

            Horatio is staring at me.

            "Dad's calling to ask if I'm coming home for my mother's birthday.  I already told him I'm working the day of the party, but he won't give up until I give in."

            "I could call him."

            My head moves in the negative, "It's not a big deal."

            "You should call them." He's not talking about the party.  He wants me to contact them to explain what is going on right now.

            "I should." I give a non-committal grunt.  I'm not ready to deal with my family yet.  I curl my fingertips into my palms.  I want to stay up, if only to make sure Megan _does_ come back.

            Exhaustion is taking me over.

            I don't want to sleep.  Not yet.

            But the darkness is sucking me in, and I'm too weak to fight it.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

cj.1@cassie-jamie.com


	4. Pensive and Faltering

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Four: Pensive and Faltering

-*-*-

            Normally the anemia is a good excuse for work, when I simply do not want to go.  Things aren't normal, however.  I'm still tired and I'm still stuck with Megan and Horatio.

            "Caelyn wants to see you everyday for the next week."

            How the hell does she do that?  I've been awake thirty seconds and she's already pouncing on me, "She can want something.  Doesn't mean it's gonna happen."

            She raises an eyebrow at me.

            "Is it not enough that I'm going tomorrow?"

            Dependable Meg.  I'll get an argument from her.

            Horatio cuts in as she parts her lips to speak, "I'll make you a deal."

            "I'm listening."

            "If you agree to keep all your appointments with Caelyn for the next month, the I will get you back into the lab." I can tell he really doesn't want to do so, but is trying to toss me a peanut.  It is _very_ hard for him to get used to the idea that he can't fix this.  I wonder what he does when Gabriella does something, because there is no ordering that child around the way he does us.

            "What's the catch?" There's some flaw in what he is bargaining.  I can sense it.

            "You'll be confined to the lab and someone will be with you at all times."

            "Why don't you just lock me in a padded room?"

            "I would, but I can't find a place that sells as much fabric as we'd need." He deadpans.

            For the first time in my life, I actually, _truly_ mean what I'm about to say, "I'd rather stay home."

            "No, you'd rather run away.  But with us here, you can't." Damnit, Megan.  Shut the fuck up.

            My nails are digging into my palms.  A warm liquid trickles into my knuckle-white fists.  She is still talking.  I am not hearing her.

            A variety of emotions are filling me like water fills a glass.  Anger, happiness, sadness, contentment.  Love.  Warmth runs down my spine.  My hands relax, and the crimson spills onto the jeans I'd changed into after we'd returned from CSI.  After an indeterminable amount of measurable time has passed, I lift them and stare at the gouges in my palms.

            The skin has been torn into harshly and deeply.  I think I nicked something.  Little rivulets of quick flowing red liquid pool in the center, and, once I tilt them at a neat angle, down to my fingertips and drip to the floor.

            "Tim."

            Her voice enters my mind and the warmth recedes.  The emotions flicker away, one by one.

            "Give me your hands."

            I hold them out, numb now in more ways than one.

            They are captured at the wrist.  H approaches and cleans away my job's focus with rubbing alcohol.  I know he's trying to avoid adding to the stinging pain I have caused on myself, but with every dab, my palms burn.  Not that I mind.

            Too soon, the now-blood-soaked gauze pad moves away.  He begins layering on the Neosporin gently, before covering his handiwork with bandages.

            My best friend releases my appendages, "You smiled." Her mouth is slightly agape.

            "I felt." I shrug.  I am not about to tell her that I only smile when I feel something to smile _about_.  I felt happy…because they are both here taking care of me.

            "Felt what?"

            "Many things I haven't missed." It's a reply I trained myself to say when this began.  There have been precious few who have found out, and that one little statement seemed to always sum it up for them.

            "Speed, do you want…"

            "No." Talking is already stretching my nerves, discussing my unhealthy habits aren't going to make it any better.

            "Calleigh and Eric called while you were napping." H says after a second of silence, and makes his watch visible so I can see that is now three in the afternoon, "They cancelled their dinner reservations."

            I sigh, my heart squeezing impossibly tight within the confines of my chest, "Please, don't let them come here."

            "Why?" She is thoroughly confused.

            "I look…bad.  I don't want to be seen like this." My brain is going too slow.  I can thing about each thought.  I don't like doing so.

            "They really want to apologize, Timmy.  And they know you aren't yourself right now." She reaches for my hair and tugs a piece.  It is an affectionate gesture, one with no real meaning anymore.

            Sighing, "Doesn't matter to me." I mumble and move my hands to the cushions.  They kneed the fabric before I rise, stumble into the study.

            Books will help.  They always help.

            "Sit down before you hurt yourself." The 'more' remains unsaid by my boss.

            I quickly find my desk chair, ironically at my desk.  'Magine that.

            "What one do you want?"

            "Solitude.  Isolation." I grumble.

            "Sorry, I don't see those titles here." He jokes, pawing through the tomes.

            "Black one.  Third shelf from the top.  The pine by the window." I look up, "Poe."

            "The heavy book with gold-edged pages comes down from its place between _The Lord of The Rings_ trilogy and several old volumes of _The Journal of Social Psychology_.  The thin, frayed gold ribbon is stuck in the middle of the book, marking where I'd last left off.

            I ignore the fabric and flip the pages to Annabel Lee.

            "I like that poem too." He lisps, sitting down on the battered loveseat I'd gotten at a yard sale just for this room.  I had thought I was quite brilliant putting it so close to the desk, at the time.  Now I curse what I did.  Having people read over my shoulder isn't something I enjoy.

            "I don't like it.  It just reminds me of someone."

            "Who?"

            "A friend.  From long ago." My Annabel Lee who graced away from her childhoods without a goodbye, without a last word at all.

            "Oh." He's giving me a look.

            "She's still in New York." She never ran from _her_ family.  She had more honor and integrity than I ever did.

            "A girlfriend?"

            "Almost a sister." He understands what I'm saying, "Like Megan."

            "Oh." I can tell he's trying to figure out what to ask next.

            "She left me too." I'm not sure why I say that.  I tend to be doing a lot of that lately – speaking before my mind can catch up, that is, "I'm hungry."  Diversionary tactic.  Which works for once.  Normally he sees right through them, probably does now but he's letting it go.

            Horatio walks out of the room, whispering to himself.

            I'm finally alone again.  Not for long.

            Meg comes in, her sunglasses hanging from her neck and a **Cosmo** in her hands.

            "You two really don't trust me, do you?"

            "No." She stares at me as though I should already know that, "You hurt yourself in front of us.  You realize he's not going to let you back into the lab now."

            "Obviously." My voice drips with sarcasm, something I didn't know I still possessed.

            "I'm going to have to find an apartment, so we can go out tomorrow." It tumbles from her lips, "Horatio took today off, but he's got to be there at six in the morning."

            "Just me and you?"

            "Yes." She's staring at me through shocked eyes.

            "What?"

            "It's nothing." Megan turns away, when the aforementioned man returns.

            How to tell the difference between them – she cooks, he microwaves.  "I guess Gabbie makes dinner?" I'd always assumed by the few meals I'd had at their house, but I never said it.

            "Yep.  I make breakfast and that's all I can without poisoning us."

            If he says anything else, I don't hear him.  Suddenly, the chicken noodle soup catches my eyes and I take it from him.  I greedily slurp it.  Before my listening skills reappear, the entire substance has found its way to my gullet.

            I look up.  My best friend is staring at me.

            My eyes roll, "What now?"

            "Oh, you're never hungry." She's working on teasing me as Horatio has – she doesn't do it well.  He says smart-alecky comments, she drips sarcasm.

            "Fuck you." The Tupperware bowl is thrown at her feet and I rise unsteadily to my feet.  Somehow I manage to get out into the adjoining room.  She follows, looking angry, but fails to say anything to me.  He is behind her.

            I curl up on the couch, hugging my knees in the classic position everyone takes when the whirlwind starts to drag them off as well.

            God, what have I done with my life?  A thirty year old who never goes out, avoids talking to my parents at all costs, and barely knows his own _brother_, for Christ's sake.  I've burned nearly every bridge I've had, and pushed Meg away like she were nothing.  She swears she's here for me, because she wants to be, but I doubt the validity.  She could be here out of some sense of loyalty to me.  It doesn't matter.  No matter what she says she will be gone.

            My head droops, hot tears grazing streaks down my tired face.

            "Tim?"

            They're both trying so hard.  It will be for naught in the end, but maybe I have a few who genuinely care.  They will plan and attend a wonderful funeral for the person I wasn't.  My family won't go.  They'll visit two months down the line and tell everyone how they didn't see this coming, that I loved Miami and didn't really want to leave my friends.  That I was sick.

            I wonder if my father will admit that he _thought_ something was wrong, yet refused to ask, as I would snap at him about asking such inane questions.  Or if my mother will cry when she chokes around her words.  Jude will stand by, the grieving brother who will never know why I left and hate me for it when he grows to be my current age.

            "Tim?" Horatio again.  The last two days have brought a new measurement of respect for him.  He is a stubborn individual, more levelheaded than anyone on the team, "Hey." His hand slides under my chin and forces me to look up, "Hey, buddy."

            That's new.  "Hi." It's weak and croaked.  Still, I manage to slap a lifeless smile on my face and hope I don't look too pathetic.

            Meg's fingers appear from the edge of my vision with a napkin wrapped around her pointer, and she wipes away the tracks on my skin.  The molten, burning ones etched into my soul remain.

            "Why don't you tell me a little more about your friend?" She's taken aback when he asks this question, but a thinly perceptible nod of his head puts to bed any fight she had in her.  She has given up control of the situation, though I think she did it unconsciously the instant she called him.

            "Annabel or Matthew?"

            "Either.  I don't know much about him or her." He sits back against the arm of the couch, with my best friend leaning her head into his chest.  I don't know if I should classify this act under 'teenage regression' or 'parental behaviors'.

            "Anna was Anna.  There isn't a way to talk about her.  We met at a hospital when my brother was born.  Her older sister had given birth earlier that morning and she'd gotten so bored that she had started to wander around the floor." I remember that day.  Every time I see an X-Men comic, I think of Annabel, "We talked about life while I waited for Mom to get released.  I think I laughed when she told me that she was named after a poem by a dead guy." I choke, close my eyes tightly to forget everything I am going to say, "She had this condition…polycythemia.  Her body made too many red blood cells, and it caused her to have some blood clots.  Usually in her legs.  They had her on blood thinners and every few months they'd remove cells.  When we got older, it came out that she could potentially get one in her heart or her brain, and one of those could kill Anna.  But we were still teenagers.

            "She married up a few days after she turned twenty.  It was a beautiful, small, secret wedding.  Neither set of parents knew.  There were no rings."

            I can hear the intake of breath from the woman.  She knows what I'm going to say, since she's heard all this before.

            "When Matt died, she was just as brokenhearted.  I wanted her to come with me, but Anna just couldn't leave her family.  I found out later that she had been pregnant." I paused, and think of the day when Pam's ex-husband, Vincent, sat me down to tell me that Annabel's little baby boy had been premature, but was surviving as his father had, "When I turned up here, her mother called to tell me that she'd had a stroke.  We were nearly twenty-two so I thought Natalie was going to say that she was fine.

            "She hadn't made it to the hospital in time, but her son had been delivered."

            "Where was her husband?" The confusion in his eyes is priceless.

            "Miami."

            I think it takes him a minute to realize what I was saying, "I said the marriage was secret.  Her parents liked me, but I was too different for their tastes.  I'd proposed once and we broke off the engagement when they threatened to disown her." Shrugging, I look away again, "My son was strong, lasted a few months.  But his lungs weren't large enough to support him, even with the steroids he'd been put on.  And as time went on his medical problems piled – infections, defects, an operation.  In the end, I named him, and buried him beside her."

            "What was his name?"

            "Blaise." I laugh lightly, "Because he blazed into my life for a little while then blazed his way out of it.  Blaise Patrick Noren-Speedle."

            I can't believe I just let all that come out.  Jumping off the furniture, I edge into the corner.  Safe here, protected.  I can't believe I did that.  Fuck.

            "Speed.  It's alright." They say it in unison.  Odd.

            "I was lying.  All lies.  Not true." I mutter it.  I want him to forget every word I just said.

            "No, you weren't.  She existed.  Remember?  You told me Annabel was the only reason you didn't ki…commit suicide.  Because you didn't want to leave her alone." Megan's approaching with soft footfalls, "I'm sure she'd be proud of you."

            For what?  Spending my entire life doing what I told berated _her_ for?  She wouldn't be proud.  She'd be so fucking ashamed…ashamed that I lied to her, ashamed that I couldn't help our son, ashamed that I ran from my family.  No, she'd have abandoned me like I deserve.

            I search through my apartment visually, looking for something – _anything_ – that could end this.  Anything.  My eyes are tearing again, and I can feel my breathing accelerate.  I won't lose it.  I won't.

            My boss has joined the brunette woman.  Don't come closer please.  Let me go.  Let me out of this place.  It's shrinking…

            Bursting past them, I flee to my balcony.  The rush in my ears is not the typical euphoria, but the reaction of my heart to what I'm about to do.  My hands grab for the railing.  I feel the warm metal beneath the pads of my fingers, and begin to leap up when I am tackled to the ceramic tiled floor.

            I punch, kick, spit, and bit at whoever it is, not caring if Meg is the person.

            "Speed.  Tim." It's masculine, I can tell now that the blood is slowing, "Timothy Speedle!" Horatio yells, an inch from my face, and I stop struggling.  It's pointless.  I'll be hospitalized now, without a doubt.

            "Why won't you just let me die?"

            "Because you're my friend." He replies instantaneously, "Megan?"

            She appears with handcuffs.  Whether they are mine or H's, I can't tell.  Doesn't make any difference to me.  As she places one cuff on my right wrist, he begins to shift his weight to stand.  Maybe I still have a chance.

            Then she puts the other on the redhead and I realize I'm thoroughly screwed.  I can kill myself.  I won't take someone with me.

            Somehow we get up, and he has to drag me into the bedroom, where the bandages are once more waiting.  It is difficult for him to work with one hand bound to me, but she picks up the slack and, by the time he's done with my arm, she has re-dressed my thigh, stomach, and chest wounds.  She moseys to the armoire, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, while withdrawing a pair of lounge pants.

            We don't talk.  He lifts me off the mattress while she unbuttons, unzips, and strips me of my jeans.  Royal blue boxers save me from embarrassment, and she still doesn't speak as Meg pulls the clean article of clothing up my thin legs.

            He guides me through the door, into the main room, then into the hall.  I know somewhere inside of me that I should be fighting this, but I just can't muster any energy to do that.  We stop outside my front door and I don't ask why.  I don't have to because she comes out a minute later, her car keys dangling from the edge of her purse.

            Strange.

            "You know where we're going, right?" He asks me, rubbing my shoulder.

            "Yes." I snag his sight and he knows that I'm not going to go against them.

            I've given them my submission.  I don't know if that's a good thing – because, now, my fate is in their hands.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

cj.1@cassie-jamie.com


	5. Perfections

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Five: Perfections

-*-*-

            I am much too tired to fight when Megan and Horatio push me into the backseat nor do I argue when she once again moves to get into the driver's seat.  I do not care anymore.

            H buckles me in, never doing the same for himself, before placing the unchained arm across my shoulders, "Okay, buddy." He tells me, "I'm going to call your parents when we get there, okay?"

            "Yes." I look away from him.  I knew they'd eventually brush me off to some one…I'd just hoped it wouldn't be my father, my mother.  They'll be here for two days, if that, and then leave because of the business.  I won't see Jude; he won't come to see his big brother locked away.

            I hear him sigh from beside me, "You don't want me to call them." It's an observation, I know, but his tone of voice passes it off as a question.

            "No."  
            "Why?"

            Should I tell him the way of the Speedle family?  That we pretty much ignore everything.  My parents watched me bury Annabel and Blaise, never saying a word.  They still think she was _just_ my best friend, and I did what I did because of that.  They never ask about that single year I took off, take for granted that I used my head to rent hotel rooms and buy food…rather than let themselves delve into reality.

            Which is ironic, since my mother's a social worker.  Funny.

            "Because I don't want them here."

            He looks worried all of a sudden, so I know he's holding back another question.

            "Because they won't be here long.  And…and I want…you and Meg." I stutter through, but it all comes tumbling from my lips.

            And, quite sadly, this is true.  I do not want my preening family, I don't want Eric and Calleigh either – I just want the two of them.  They have not passed judgment.

            "Uh, well…" He starts.  I figured he might look for a way out once I asked.

            "Never mind.  Call my mother." I had looked back to him, and now I turn my head once more, trying to avoid the inevitable.

            "Timmy, what the dolt is trying to say to you is that we're already here.  He's got to work, but I know he'll be beside you if you ask.  I've got no life and no job so you're already the only thing in my planner."

            I snort, "What ever." The building comes into view, looming over us as we pull into the main parking lot.  I seriously hate these places.  They smell of death while they talk of life.

            The engine has started to cool.  Megan's staring at me, "You ready?"

            I glare at her, yet it is weak and unconvincing, if one were to judge by her facial expression.

            "Come on, Buddy." Horatio's released my shoulders, and is now tugging on the handcuffs.

            I really don't want to get out.  My breathing is living up to my nickname; my eyelids have closed against the thought running through my head.

            No!  No dying…not until I've been unchained from him.  I said before, and I'll say it again – I'll commit suicide, quite happily, but I won't take anyone with me.

            Both of them are standing at the open passenger door now, looking at me blithely.  I don't know why, but my body moves dully toward them.

            "Alright." The boss breathes once I am in the Miami air.  His hands find their way to my unwounded wrist, then begins leading me to the glass doors, the air conditioned waiting room of the Mental Health Services of Jackson Memorial.

            This walk is harrowing.

            I don't want to go!  Stop!  Take me home.  Please!  I want to yell all that and more, but my mouth refuses to work.  I jerk away, pulling forcefully on Horatio's wrist as I do so.  He yelps and I tug harder.

            "Tim!" Meg shrieks, as her arms go around me.  She's small, but she is by no means as weak as I am currently, "It's alright now.  It's alright." She tries to soothe.  It's not working.  Still, I have no strength left.  I relax into her grip.

            "It's not alright." I reply, digging my nails beneath the bandages.  I need to feel.  Please let me feel.

            My appendages are caught in someone else's hands, "Speed.  We know.  We know it's not alright.  It hasn't been alright for a long time, and that's why we're doing this.  This is not a punishment.  We don't want to come to work one day to find out it's your body Alexx is autopsying."

            Fuck.  How can I argue with that?  How the fuck can I even _reason_ my way around that?  I cannot.  "I want to die.  Please.  Just…just let me die." I don't know there are tears on my face until they have plopped to the asphalt.

            "I can't do that, buddy." He lisps, grabbing my hand.  This time, however, he does not tug me in the direction he wants us to travel.

            A few minutes pass, while I try to collect myself.  Once again we start the trek to the building, and my best friend's clinging to my arm – it's a small comfort.  I'll need it when I've been tossed in the quiet room, when they've tied me to the bed.

            When we enter the building, the cool air forces goosebumps to appear on my exposed skin.  It's the middle of the night, making it a touch cooler so it's perplexing that the AC is even on.

            "Can I help you?" A nurse asks Horatio, and I start to let my mind blank them out.  I don't want to hear them; I don't want to know they're talking about me as though I'm not even in the room.

            I don't want to be here.  I don't.

            "Tim?" The woman nurse touches my arm.

            "What?" I snap back, hoping she'll _go away_.

            She doesn't do that though.  She speaks, "I'm Lynette.  Dr. Codyn will be down to speak with you in a little while." then begins leading me to a room, never once saying anything to Meg or H.  It's an ordinary room that she takes us to, like other hospital rooms.  "I'll need to see your arms."

            I'd panicked for a minute, thinking she'd ask to see them all.  I will gladly let her see my arms, so I hold them out for her to remove the gauze.  They come off almost painstakingly, the fabric being rolled into tight balls.  The cuts in my palms have started bleeding again.

            "This is infected." She tells me, once my left wrist has been uncovered.  The marks are an angry red, oozing yellow pus at the very end, "Did you do this with your nails?"

            "No." I shrug, "Knife."

            She nods; I see Meg shudder.  I wonder why.  She's seen me like this before, with marks from a steak knife, a razor blade – I've even used the broken scope slides at work.  Hell, she's _caught_ me with the object in my hands.

            "You've been here to see Dr. Codyn before."

            "Multiple times." When I first came to Miami, after Blaise, the night of Graduation, two days following Meg's departure…

            Once more, she nods in understanding, and continues treating my arms, wrists, and hands, "Now, may I see the rest?" She inquires, which momentarily ceases my heart.

            I can barely bring myself to open my lips, "The…the rest?  There aren't any more."

            Out of the corner of my eye, I see Horatio toss me a look that says 'just-cooperate!'.  I suppose he'll stay for a bit if I do so, but the stinging pains from the exposed gashes impede the process of removing my shirt.  The boss steps up after I spend an instant struggling to get it off, gathers the fabric, then rips it from the middle of the collar to the extreme left of the hem.  Doesn't bother me in the slightest.  I'm still wearing _something_ to cover my back.

            The tape is eased from my abdomen, and I'm unsurprised to find this cut is infected as well, though it seems to be slightly worse.  Lynette prods it, discovering I'll groan and dark blood will drip from it if she pokes at the edge.

            "Ow!" I can't help it.  She's grabbed a swab to wipe away what she can.  H is holding my best friend back.  She's about ready to pummel the other woman.

            "I'm sorry.  There's dirt or sand in this one."

            Well, when someone tackles you on the never-been-swept patio, that can happen, now can't it?  I want to yell.  However, Andrew Codyn has appeared and he looks more upset than my own friends.

            "Hey there." Drew tosses at me.  He's a few years older than H.  Forty-seven, I think.  Already going gray, but his brown eyes are a lot like Meg's – full of life.  Like mine must've been once an era ago.

            "Hi."

            "I was wondering when you'd get here again."

            Ah, so he had no faith in me either.  I purse my lips, then bit my tongue when a piece of the scab is inadvertently ripped away and blood seeps out. It stains the edge of my worn lounge pants like thick, sticky smooth, red paint.  The color of my bathroom floor.  My fingers drift to it.

            Someone grabs them, and I realize it's my boss, "No, Speed." He warns, then lets me go.  He continues to stand beside me.

            And I understand why when the rubbing alcohol-saturated pad comes in contact with the reopened cut.  I hiss at it.  I don't know why…this is pleasure.  This is happiness.  I still hiss at it.

            "Relax.  Breathe, buddy." I'm trying to figure out where this buddy thing came from.  It's almost like it came out of thin air.  Is this his way of telling me that he's worried?  Or is he just working on getting home to dress for work?

            The pleasure ends, as does the torture, "More." It comes out against my will, causing everyone in the room to look at me as though I've sprouted another head, "Sorry."

            "You know you've left me with very few options, right?" Drew states, catching my line of sight.

            "Yeah." I answer, then, "Inpatient, partial hospitalization, or police custody until the state decides if _they've_ got enough reason to commit me."

            He groans.  I know he doesn't like it when I say it's being 'committed'.  He says it makes it sound like prison – but to me, it is.  There are no locks on the doors, the staff was gentle and kind the one overnight I was forced into, but it still means my job gets put in jeopardy and my family will hear.

            "Just inpatient me."

            The shock in his eyes is mirrored by Megan and Horatio.  They brought me here – did they not think I'd known this was coming?

            Codyn leaves me then, taking my friends so I am alone in the room.  Lynette does not count.

            I do not want to be here.  I don't.  I want to go home, back to my apartment.  I want my knives in my hands, one slicing through my skin.  The idea of that alone makes me want to moan.

            "Is there anything else that I should treat?" The question pierces the thoughts I had.

            "No." I am somewhat surprised that she hasn't pressed for more.

            My stomach growls.  Loudly.  But it's not food I'm looking for.  No, it's a toilet or a basin or _something_ to empty the bile into.  I almost don't find one, yet at the last moment a kidney bean shaped pan is thrust under my face.  Everything comes up, some blood as well.

            I turn my head, wiping my mouth of the acidic grime, to see the nurse staring at the elder man, worry etched into her face as though she were a sculpture.

            "He's got stomach ulcers.  Ones I believed he was being treated for." Drew pulls the pan away hesitantly, then places it on a counter across from the bed I'm in.  My best friend and the boss are back in here, standing to the side.

            "Meds made me sick.  Couldn't work if I couldn't get out of bed." It's true.  They had me on something that didn't help.  If anything, it made it worse.  I cut the syrup from my regime and things got a little better.  In a matter of speaking.

            "Only you, Tim."

            "Speed."

            He rolls his eyes.  Meg's resisting the urge to hit him.  She's never liked Drew; I do.  So she'll behave, and I'm glad for that.  He treats me like I'm human, like I won't break.  That's what I want and need.

            "Have you been taking the other meds you were prescribed?"

            I contemplate the answer for a moment.  Should I tell him a lie?  That I've been taking them religiously.  Or the truth?  Eh, might as well.  I'm going to be sleeping with restraints by the dawn anyway, "No.  Not for…"

            "For?" He stands up straighter, trying to push me into telling him.  I won't.  I don't have to.

            "Since I left." She interjects, "Oh, Timmy.  Honey." She's choking around her words.  Swiftly, she steps across the distance between us, grazes a hand down my cheek, and then kisses the same skin she just touched, "You had my cell number, didn't you?  The private one?  You know I won't have ignored you if you had called that one."

            "I didn't have that number." I shove her back, "So I called your apartment a bunch of times.  I left messages on your answering machine and your work cell."

            She looks at me, brokenhearted, "You had the number for second one.  I…I wrote it down for you.  E-mailed it too."

            "I'm telling you I didn't have the fucking number, unless you mean it's the one that was disconnected because you _didn't pay the bill_!" I'm really getting bitter, only because I don't want to burst out in tears.  I'm stronger than that.

            And the realization hits her.  All these past years, she has told me time and time again that she was here for me.  If I needed help, call her.  But I had her beside me, so I hadn't needed to outright ask – then one day she wasn't there.  I couldn't even reach her.

            Megan backs out of the room, her hand over her mouth.  Once outside the door, she turns and flees.

            I knew she'd leave.  No matter what she said, I knew she'd leave me alone again, leave me alone with some old pictures and a bloodied blade, and I knew it was only a matter of time.

            "I'll be right back, Tim." The redhead tells me, then exits in the same fashion my ex-best friend did.

            "They're both coming back.  So stop looking like a child whose pet died."

            "But they aren't coming back.  They might say they are, but they won't."

            "And you believe that, why?" He asks me, probably expecting that I'll say that I don't have a reason.

            I keep silent.  I don't want to give away that it is more than a gut feeling.  He'll say I'm crazy, put me on the anti-psychotics that come in IV drip form.  Bruises always come from those.  Purple-green splotches like battle scars, running the length of my arms.  Needle tracks that make me look like one of the junkies we find in alleyways.

            God, I'm turning into Horatio.

            Who returns to the room as soon as the thought runs through my frontal lobe, "Megan's washing her face."  Am I supposed to say something to that?

            "We'll be transferring you upstairs in a few minutes.  You're lucky enough to escape having a roommate for the moment." Lynette's too fucking cheery.  I hope she's not the woman who'll be assigned to me in the ward.

            Andrew must be a mind reader, because he turns to me, while the woman isn't looking in his immediate direction, he mouths, '_She's yours.  Get used to her._'

            I need to cut, rip these old wounds open to bleed out the loss of control.  And it's entirely my fault too.  Stupid things I said, this is the effect.

            My searching eyes rove over many different implements.  None within my reach.  Then I notice the lancet.

            It's merely laying there on the stainless steel table, and I swear my name is written on it.  But how to get my scarred, antiseptic-covered hands on it…Oh, what the hell.  IV's aren't bad; if you jerk them the right way, they give off flashes of pain.

            I lunge for it, taking them all by surprise, and have it dug into my stomach in seconds.  I scratch it up, down, left right.  All the while, Horatio and Drew are trying to get a hold on me, without injuring themselves in the process.  Somehow I crawl into the corner of the room, wedged between the counter and the wall.  I slick it down my chest, between my nipples and through the soon-to-be scars to the top of my navel.  The line causes biting sensations like a paper cut.

            "Give that to me.  Now!" H holds out a hand.  I stare at him momentarily, the calloused skin of the extended appendage.  Back to the implement.  I notice my pants have rolled up slightly, displaying my ankle's dull, pasty skin.  I pull my leg into the space, bent at an odd angle, but I slice into it anyway.  Suck it up.  Drag a finger over it.

            And feel…sadness, hopelessness.  Broken.

            When my brain catches up, I realize I am crying into my knees that have been drawn up to my chest, my hands cradling my temples.  Meg's kneeling in front of me, the lancet being handed back to my boss.  She's stretching a limb to me, eventually stroking through my disheveled hair.

            "Ready to come out?" She asks.

            I want to.  I do.  But it's safe here.  Yet, her eyes, those fucking brown eyes… "Tired."

            "I know.  There's a bed for you upstairs." She's moved to run her soft fingers across the purple bags, taking away the tears, "Come on.  We'll go take a nap." Slowly, she stands, still touching me.

            She's treating me like a scared child.  Like the children my mother helps, loves, _believes_.

            "Oh…Okay." I don't know why that word comes out so lifeless, split in half as though I can't control my own vocal cords.

            I see Drew step backward and I can see the straps on the exam bed.  I can't blame them.  I wouldn't trust me either.  He knows I can see them, says nothing to me – he knows I put little value on such things.

            Words are merely cover for the lies we are told daily.  And my lies will remain embedded under my frail epidermis, marked and marred.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

cj.1@cassie-jamie.com

Raven: I know it's a day late, but I hope you liked it.  I accidentally lost your e-mail.  If it's alright, would you e-mail me in a few days?  You know, something to remind me to write the next chapter.

And to answer your question, I do _some_ research, but I've got friends and family who tell me about their experiences.

Meggo: Why, thank you.

CSIRMT: Also, thank you.  Might I ask what the RMT stands for?

Aphy: *Untackles our darling Tim* He'll resist soon enough.  And it's definitely weird how easy it is to see him doing something like this.  But what the hell…

jo: Over detailed…I actually think my writing is very detailed.  But if people like it as it is…  Like I told a friend – It's always nice to hear I don't have the atrocious linguistics of a rock.


	6. Tears

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Six: Tears

-*-*-

            The room I've been assigned to is at the end of the hall, a single large window behind my bed.  The floor is quiet.  Almost everyone is asleep, the exception being a kid who looks like he's just a little older than H's daughter.  He's watching from across the hall.

            Megan's grip on my hand is impossibly rigid; I think my fingers are blue.  I refuse to make my lips form words – any words, causing there to be an awkward silence while she leans me into the mattress.

            Drew enters the room, Horatio with him, and both are armed with the blue-padded restraints I loathe.

            "Timmy." She lisps quietly, trying to get me to lay back.  I know the reason.  I don't have to obey.

            I don't.  But my head makes my body do as it was asked.

            H mutters under his breath, words I know yet cannot place.  Tired little sentences while he straps me down; my wrist, he huffs out about being a little more selfish.  My ankle, ignorant parents.

            My doctor, my nurse, my friends step back.

            And here I am, twenty-nine going on fucking thirty and bound as though I were a child who cannot control his impulses.  Nearly in the third decade of my life with my boss helping to lock me away in a stark white, air controlled building.  Where I'll be subjected to endless therapy sessions, some with my fellow inmates; medications to help me 'relax', the nurses' favorite item when they want peace and quiet.

            I'd always survived on my own with little or no help.  Still do.  Megan, once she found out, tried to intervene with my habit, but while I love her like a sister, she could never fully understand – and that separated me from ever changing.  I could not…_cannot_…let go of this like the redhead can release emotion while looking at rape kit results from little kids.  At the end of the day, he can go home and sleep it off.

            Bastard.

            Anger takes me over.  I look them up and down, then spit out, "What did you think?  I'd just come and be cured overnight?  Thought tired immature Timmy would come to his senses?"  Meg takes moves away again, "Well, _fuck_ you!" I'd been struggling against my bonds, and I slammed my head against the pillow when that last word slipped out.

            Codyn had left while I vented at my friends, slipped from the room like he were a ghost; but now he returns with a syringe, "Do I have to do this, Tim?  Are you really going to make me sedate you?"  He asks me, knowing full well I might say yes, I might say no.  There are days when being drugged into oblivion isn't a bad idea.  Then I don't have to listen to conversations about me, while I stand two inches from the person.  I don't have to be a member of the human race temporarily and that means I _can_ forget about the kids who's eyes were open to pierce my soul, the dead women with infants at home, the single fathers with no families to care for the ones left behind; The ones left behind.

            My best friend shifts forward a step and mouths out 'no!' as though I will repeat it.  The boss simply stands there with his hands at their residence on his hips.

            And the thought strikes me – no, I don't want to be sedated.  Right now, I just want to stare at the ceiling, stare until I go blind from the lack of color.

            "No." I shrink back into the bed.

            The eldest man sighs, "I'm going to go now, alright?  I have to finish the paperwork for you.  Lynette will be in soon to get your IV going.  You need to be treated for dehydration and get some meds for the infections."

            "What ever."

            Liar, liar.  I know what will be put into that IV when I am not looking.

            "I'll come by later to see you." He leaves then, the far-too-cheery Lynette coming to join my little party with the newest implements for my torture.

            "Okay, darling." She's not smiling anymore and that's fine with me.  I much prefer someone who doesn't try to make me fucking _happy_.  "You should close your eyes." She instructs.

            The misleading sensation of coldness takes over my torso as she applies the rubbing alcohol.  I know she wants me to avoid watching so I don't make this more difficult than it has to be.

            Too bad.

            I flex and tighten my muscles in my uncut forearm.  She looks up at me, surprised.  It confirms my suspicions that Lynette is a newbie to this department, "Relax." She still thinks I can recover.  Silly girl.

            The other man shifts and crosses his arms, "Cooperate, Speed." He orders in his 'I'm-the-boss-so-you'll-do-what-I-say' voice.

            Which has no affect on me.  Not anymore.  I think this constitutes an automatic dismissal at work, an automatic third-person resignation to the MDPD.  I can't remember if it is or not, but I doubt the higher-ups will let Horatio keep me on staff after this.

            I maintain my self-imposed muteness, but I have no desire to give anyone reason to inject me with a litany of sedatives.  Thus, I obey.  Calming breaths…  I go limp to make it that much easier on her, only since she's still not smiling.  I'm teaching her well.

            Yet I still watch as the bluntly-sharp object penetrates my pasty-pale skin.  The prick momentarily sends me skyward, before crashing me back to reality.  The nauseating, steady drip-drip-drip of the clear liquid as it melds with my lackluster hemoglobin; the feel as unfamiliar drugs settle into my system to treat all the ailments they have decided are in me, on me.

            My gaze clouds for a minute and I blink, expecting it to clear up.  Then I realize it's not me.

            The white haze is from the blonde's scrub top.  She's standing over me, two pills in her delicate palm and a glass of water in her other hand, "Iron."

            She says nothing more.  Andrew must've had a little chat with her when I was force-marched to my current home.  Though I suspect, she tells me that as I was supposed to be on these little nightmares for a year now.

            "And?" I try to move my arms wider, but she catches my message loud and clear – then proceeds to toss both tiny objects into my mouth, followed closely by a soft flood of water.

            Megan's immediately up in arms and begins yelling at my nurse, but I can't say anything.

            Oh.  Fuck.

            It wasn't _two_ iron pills; one was the mineral and a sedative.  Sneaky, maniacal, conniving…

            I don't want to sleep.  I don't…I can't.  Please don't make me.  I want to scream and shout and yell.  Out of my thin lips, I cry, "Hate the dark.  Scared." Pathetic, I nearly add.

            My eyelids droop, the room dims.

            No!  I won't give in.  I won't.

            "I'm here, Timmy.  I'm here." My friend's voice cuts sharply into my elusive lucidity, "Don't be scared, honey." She lisps into my ear, gently.  Lulling me further into slumber.

            And Horatio drives the final nail into my coffin – he approaches; I see his blur from the corner of my vision, then a hand threads its way through my hair.

            I hear a cell phone ring as I lapse into the all-consuming darkness.

-*-*-

            The room is enveloped in jolted black, abandoned with the exception of myself, when I wake.  The unadorned, plain sky blue curtain has been drawn to block out the warm, yellow rays of the Miami sun.

            My ears search for any sound of another person, for Horatio or Megan.

            And I hear someone, outside the door.  A decidedly upset, feminine voice.  Her voice stresses and cracks as my best friend speaks, "But he wo…n't try again, will…will he?" She's obviously been crying.  Her methodical type of speech always goes down the drain when there are tear-streaks on her tired face.

            "I don't know, Ms. Donner.  Some people only attempt once, some will do it a few more times until they overcome what ever it is that is making them do that, and some won't stop until they succeed." Drew answers, "Either way, he's going on a twenty-four hour suicide watch.  I have to contact a social worker to come stay with Tim, but until he can get here, Lynette or I will be in with him."

            "And we'll be allowed to see him everyday, right?"

            Should I be worried about the 'we' in that sentence?

            "During visiting hours."

            I tire of eavesdropping on their discussion of me.  My eyes roll up so I can peek beneath the hem of the heavy fabric dimming my cell.  I catch the sight of a set of clouds shaped almost like wings.  A plane flies through them suddenly; they pop apart, seeping across the baby-blue sky.

            "Hey, you." Meg's tone is like a newborn's skin, "I thought you were going to sleep your life away."

            I wish I could.  Like no one would believe.  To slide into the pinching slumber of unconsciousness, before exiting this world for the next.

            I choose to not say that thought, "What time is it?"

            "One in the afternoon."

            The desire to run my fingers across my face, a force of habit, and rub my lips 'till they bleed washes through me.  Alas, my body with still tied to the metal rails of the gurney, although a chest-strap seems to have materialized while I slumbered.

            "Horatio has to work, but he and Gabbie will come by later." She volunteers as though I will care.

            Technically, I do.  I will not tell her that.  She may be my best friend, taking the place of ones now gone; yet I do not hope for her to guess this information.  It would not do if the secret I harbor for the boss's daughter were to come out.

            "What ever."

            "Hungry?"

            I was wondering when that would reappear.  Her want to feed me is slightly comforting.

            "Not really." My response is punctuated by a growl from my stomach.  Traitor.

            Megan raises an eyebrow at me, "Convincing, really." The hand within my visual range whips the curtains open, essentially blinding me as the room goes from faux-midnight to early afternoon.  "Dr. Codyn brought up some lunch for you."

            There's a covered plate on the stainless-steel rolling table, a bowl of rice pudding, and a large cup of orange juice.  "Meg, could…could you untie my hands?  Not my feet, just my hands." I don't want to be fed like a toddler, like I fed Jude when Mom was sick or exhausted.

            She looks up nervously toward the door where Drew is leaning against the frame.  He contemplates for a moment, his brow furrowed, before, "No."

            They both sigh, then lift the head of my bed.  I cannot move well; my legs are like lead weights from not being able to move and the strap across my upper torso only lets me breath, nothing more.  I am definitely not a fucking fan of this treatment, but it is now my fate.  I gave in to this, so I will learn to deal.

            "I called your parents while you were out." He informs me while my best friend crawls up onto the sheets.  He looks at me with an expectant expression, and when I don't give him a response, he continues, "Your mother sends her love, and says she'll fly down as soon as she can get a flight."

            I don't want to hope that she'll bring Jude.  I refuse to give into _that_ delusion.  Still… "Is she bringing Jude?"

            "Yes."

            I was…wrong?  I've never been wrong before.  Not with my parents.  I know them!

            Meg nudges a fork into her fingers.  I have to know.  Mom would tell the truth…I force myself to look at her, "Did you talk to my mother?"

            "Yes.  Dr. Codyn told her I was here and she asked to speak with me." She uncovers the plate to reveal pasta laden with tomato sauce, "Jude is definitely coming."

            I manage to choke out, "But…but…" How is this possible?  I know my parents!  They're the most predictable, selfish people on the fucking planet.  I've lived here a number of years, they've never visited; I got meningitis, they sent some flowers with a birthday card and money.  They only call when they want something, if there's a party I refuse to go to.  And it's always my fath…

            "My father…he's not coming?"

            "No." Meg stabs a piece of ziti, and lifts it to my lips, "Now, eat."

            My stomach growls and aches, but let my mouth open so she can feed me.  Ironic.  Something else I was wrong about.  I actually like sitting here with her, even if I'm strapped at every limb.

            _"What were you thinking?!" I scream at Annabel, her warm-honey skin stained red with drying blood._

_            She shrugs, "Would you believe I wasn't thinking?" It's an offered lie, and I know it.  She knows I know it.  She cannot even look at me._

_            Forcing myself to calm down, I take her face in my hands, "Anna?" I love her with all my heart, and it's hurting me to see her hide behind her blonde hair like she's scared of me._

            _"I…I don't know, Tim.  I don't know.  I've been doing it so long, it's what I do." She finally does allow her gaze to shift, and she stares at me from jade eyes, "I don't have a reason to cut anymore.  And I can't stop." She starts crying then, her 5'3" frame almost smacking against the toilet tank with her sobs._

            I almost took her to the hospital that day.  Almost.

            She'd gotten on her knees as soon as I mentioned that I wanted to take her to see someone, begged me not to.  She begged that I keep it to myself.  And I did.  For a week.

            "Speed." My best friend is nearing with the fork again.  The bowl is half empty, "Just a little more." She pleads, "Okay?"

            "No more." I can't take anymore.  Not when I can hear Anna's voice going through my head when I came to tell her that Matt was dead, to take her home because those people were _not_ helping her.  Pam's voice when I saw Blaise the first time and the last.

            "Tim?"

            I wish I could curl up, slip my head in between my knees, and forget my life.  Forget my youth, my parents, my fucking job.

            Forget the noise in my head, reminding me of all my failures.

            "Tim!" Drew's staring at me, "Tim, relax."

            But I can't.  It's not possible.  Not anymore.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com

Raven: Hey, your enthusiasm is what gets this thing written!  I like it.  Though I can't imagine ever memorizing a fic!  :-D

Aphy: Hum…A hamster…maybe.  :::Wonders about the Tim Jr. part:::  You'll probably like next chapter best.

Saryn: Thank you.

Yaba: I'll let everyone go after it when it's finished.  Until then…


	7. Quicksand Years

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Seven: Quicksand Years

-*-*-

            Fucking.  Damn.  Whores.

            Is the first thing I think of as I open my eyes and take in the world around me, realizing that they sedated me.

            Again.

            And they wonder why we can't trust each other – they tell my secrets, force me to sleep, and expect I won't do something to relax.  How can I allow myself to look at them and imagine life without them when all I want to do is draw and quarter them?

            My eyes once again rove over the room.  Although I am happy to find that my restraints are gone, my sight picks up a man, maybe a couple years older than me, with blonde hair who's staring at me smugly.  He's seated across the room in a hospital chair, dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt.  Decidedly informal attire.  But I do not know him.

            Now this can't be good.

            "Hello, Timothy.  I'm Chris Markinsen." He stands and extends an arm to shake my hand, but I ignore him, "I'm your social worker."

            I can't stop what I mumble in response, "Suicide watch." I'd forgotten that I'm on one now.  A light couple of taps to the head, "Stupid."

            He's obviously not happy with my display of self-discipline.  Wisely, he says nothing about it, and asks me a question instead, "Dr. Codyn already told you?"

            "No, I overheard the conversation Andrew was having with Megan." The venom in my voice is unmistakable, "And I don't like it when people talk about me when I'm in the same fucking room.  It's insulting and rude."

            His eyebrow raises, "I've been informed that…_that_ word is your favorite, but if you could…"

            Don't ever give me an opening like that.  Because it's too easy for me to start, "F-u-c-k.  Fuck.  _Fuck you_!" The yelling gets my best friend to appear from seemingly thin air.

            "Tim.  Stop behaving like a child." She warns, from mid-way between the door and my bed.

            "So you can treat me like one?" I bite back at her, sitting up straighter in the tilted bed and putting on my best glare.  Which is barely effective, because all it does is make her sigh and move closer, stroking my chin with a finger.

            "Your mom and Jude should be here soon.  Another two hours maybe.  Horatio's on his way.  Decided to leave work early because Gab's demanding to come see you." The held back tears in her voice are thick.  I did it, too, and that hurts.  I'm making her upset all over again.

            _"If you would take your head out of your ass for **two** seconds, you'd see that you are pushing away everyone!  That's why you're alone!" She yells at me._

            _"Megan Elise Donner!" I get her to attention with the use of her full name, then continue, "I know I'm pushing away everyone!  I know it!  And everyone lets me!" I'm seething now, handcuffed to my own bed now that she sees what my therapy is, "I want to be alone!"_

            _She starts crying then, hugging me to her.  Huge breaths in, out, in, out.  Irregular and I realize I'm making her cry._

            _"Oh, Meg.  I'm sorry.  Don't cry.  Please, don't cry, Meg."_

            I turn my eyes to the ceiling, tired of seeing the expression of pure hopelessness on Meg's face, "I'm sorry." My nails are drifting.  I can't stop them.  Wish I could, to avoid those stupid, blue constraining straps, but my need is overpowering.  I have to make this go away.

            "Tim.  No." She takes my appendages into her own, "No more, Timmy.  You don't have to do this anymore.  Promise me you won't."

            You can't ask me that.  She cannot ask me to not cut, "I wish I could."

            "But you can." She bends, captures my face and makes me look at her, "You are so strong, Timmy.  You are and you can get better."

            There's the optimism that she puts so much energy in to.  It won't pan out.  Not with me.  I've been like this too long.  Still, her heart has taken so many blows…

            "I can't promise, because I'd be lying.  I…uh…I'll promise to try.  But I can't promise that I will." I can give her that much.  Then when I fail, when my brain takes over and thrusts me back into reality and I tear my skin with knives or nails or teeth or god-knows-what, she won't feel like I broke a pact between us.

            My best friend nods, "That will do for now." She pats my hair back, smoothing it from my eyes.

            I let myself look up, to see what Chris is doing, as he's most likely planning my next torture, when I glance at a thick of dark hair.  Dark like mine, but longer.  "Hi, Mom."

            Megan turns to face my parent; her lips tighten into a thin line, "Mrs. Speedle, it's good to see you again." The customary, 'Thought I wish it were under different circumstances', is left off deliberately, because I'm sitting two feet from the older woman.

            "Where's Jude?" I inquire.  I want my brother.  He's all I want, and I don't know why.  Probably to see if he's become any bit like me, so I can correct those flaws.  He will not allow him to fuck up his life like I've fucked up mine.  Jude's better, smarter.

            He appears, and I realize the mental image concocted from worn photos, e-mails, and phone calls is off.  His hair is more like my father's – sandy blond, roots coal-black, and his complexion is tan, not peaches-n-cream.  He's taller too.  Beyond that, he is me at seventeen.  Complete with torn Nirvana t-shirt and black pants.

            "Hey, bro." He's treading lightly with me, as though he fears setting me off.  I can see the glint of a tongue ring when he speaks.

            "Take that out of your mouth right now!" I demand, calming him inadvertently.

            Markinsen's staring at me and I don't like it.  Neither does my mom, but she knows what it means.  So she clasps my little brother's shoulder, "I need to talk to Tim alone, okay?" Her eyes float to my best friend.

            Both of them nod, understanding the message, then exit stage left.

            "I didn't ask either Dr. Codyn or Megan to tell me what happened because I want to hear it from you."

            She's kind of like Horatio, my mother.  She's pushing, but she's letting me know it's okay to say only as much as I want.  And she's watching me like the boss watches us at a scene.  Still…it won't matter what I tell her, since soon Lauryn Speedle will decide that I'm too bad an influence on Jude and take her leave, never to return to Miami or to me.

            "It's a long story."

            "I've got time."

            Why do I do this to myself?  Why do I perpetually back myself into corners, to discover I'm on the inside looking out at all the what-ifs?

            And I let it all out in that instant, all the things I've wanted to say to my mother for years.  Not about the cutting, the one or two lowly burns when I needed something and a lighter was closest to my grasp.  I tell her about the hatred I harbor for her and for my father, who couldn't even find the time to come visit his oldest son when I need him most.  Of the chafing phone calls and evasion anytime I begged for them to visit.  I scream of Annabel and Matthew, of my Blaise.

            "You never cared before!  Never!" I let my tirade come to a close.  My breath comes out in pants, my hands clutch the sheets and there's a bead of sweat trailing a path down my forehead.

            Her eyes mist, lower lip trembles, "Do you truly believe that, sweetheart?"

            Endearments…her way of evoking guilt, "No.  I don't believe it – I _know_ it!" She had relaxed, but re-tenses when I calmly let that out, "Meg left and I needed to talk to you.  What happened, Mom?  You told me you were busy.  I have to be one of your _fucking_ cases for you to even _look_ at me!" I slam back; shut my lids against the light.

            And I stay like that for a little while, hoping to avoid…everything.  It isn't possible though, and I release my tight hold on my eyes so they open as a rubber band would snap back.

            In time to see that Lynnette is injecting my IV line with something, and I really don't care anymore, "What is it?"

            She eyes me for a second, "Butisol Sodium."

            My exhaustion disappeared earlier after two forced naps, so it only serves to calm my frayed nerves, "Where's Megan?" I beg of her.

            I can't deal with my mother anymore, not with her sapped, morose gaze.  I can't handle her disappointment or her guilt.  I want my best friend, my protector.

            "Lieutenant Caine and Miss Caine are downstairs.  They asked to speak with her before they came up."

            Finally.  Won't have to depend solely on Megan to save me from everyone else.  Someone who understands, who knows – who _feels_.

            "Timothy?" My mother stares at me, solidly.  Mommy…no!  Speed, this is the woman who never has time for you.  She never visits and keeps you from coming home when you ask.  She's not mommy any more.

            "Go away." I slide to my side, roll away from her, before lifting my IV arm over my ear.  I can still hear her, as she sighs my name and sniffs away salty tears, "Tell Dad he was right."

            There's some noise at the doorway, intriguing me to switch back to being semi-vertical.  H stands there, "Feeling better?"  
            Rhetorical question, huh, boss?  Go to the ER and ask that to someone sick or injured, not the emotionally damaged residents of the Psych ward.

            "She called my phone sixty-seven times because she couldn't wait to come see you and I refused to give her the keys to the car.

            As he informs me, a short redhead peeks out from behind my boss's back and smiles cynically, "Hi, Speed."

            Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Chris nod to my nurse, who leads my mother into the hallway with Horatio in tow.  It is just three of us, and I note the desire for him to leave in the pit of my stomach.  But he won't – he can't, by law, by hospital regs.

            Her warm eyes, almost teal at this moment, are trained on me, "Miss you." Ever since I met Gabbie, she's been like the little sister I didn't have.  I taught her to ride my bike, which H still has yet to find out about, and once a week she and I read each other interesting articles out of some of my forensics magazines.

            "I miss you too." My arms widen of their own accord; she fills the gab in seconds, "I'm sorry."

            "For?"

            How do I explain?  How do I tell her that I screwed up and if Horatio were to test the blood on my knives, the results will undoubtedly come back with two donors – her and I?  "I think…I think they're right."

            I can see the fear in her eyes.  Never the most vocal person, Gab speaks with her body, her eyes, and I know she's afraid I'll give up her secret – and I will.  Eventually.  But not now.

            "I, uh, am going to try." I restrain from adding an additional sentence only because Markinsen is ever-present.  I think it instead, _'And you should try to stop, too.'_

            She knows what I am implying but places me with one of the infamous Caine stares, "Why?"

            I lean close to her ear, "Because I can't stand having a social worker be with my twenty-four-seven, even while I shower."

            The little redhead girl lets out a tiny laugh, mirthless and thick, "Poor Speed." A hand reaches up, ruffles my hair so badly I know it is sticking up in every direction – the only person who I allow to get away with that.

            I kiss her scalp, "Promise me."

            "Promise." She mutters, pulling out of my grasp to let her eyes temporarily lock with mine.  The truth is contained within their depths.  Gabriella is willing to try.  But it won't last long.  Horatio will make one stupid comment about work, will be late to pick her up one day and she'll give in to the temptation.

            The father reappears in the doorway, "I'm sorry, guys, but Andrew had to lie to get her up here and I don't want to get him in trouble.  She won't be able to come back if he does."

            "Tomorrow?" She asks.

            "Yeah.  I'll see you tomorrow."

            Horatio's expression tells me it will be a miracle if I see her again before the end of the week, but I have no problems with that.  We need to be apart; I need to talk to Jude.

            He takes her then.  With a last hidden smile, she leaves.

            Megan returns, "I heard you were asking for me." She lets a blithe smile slip, but quick shoves it back and begins to crawl onto the bed.

            "Yeah." I say nothing.  I don't have to.  My best friend knows I'm asking her to save me from my mother.  My social worker mother who's talking to Andrew just outside my earshot.

            Always and without fail my mom has treated me as though I were a tiny child, who needs to be taken care of.  Since the day I was fucking born, until the day I'm six feet under with marks on my wrists.

            "Your mom thinks that you should still be restrained." The brunette before me lisps out.

            "Why?" It drips off my tongue covered in sarcasm, but it is a genuine question.  I'm just too used to using scathing retorts.

            She rolls her melted-chocolate eyes at me, "Because of your performance mainly."  Now there's a surprise, my mother's trying to do her job here.

            "Told you.  I have to be a case for her to care."

            "We've had this fight before.  Let's not repeat it." She's asking more than telling.  I'll concede though, because she's not my mother and I don't want her to go.  I want her to stay with me.

            Someone clears their throat.  Chris looks at me, indifferent almost, before pointing at the door.  Jude is staring at me, fingering the hem of his shirt.

            "I'll be in the hall waiting for the redhead.  Horatio wanted to make sure that Gab got onto the road alright."

            Once gone, my brother walks in, a little weary of the man watching my every move, and stands beside my bed, "Hi." He says.

            Fuck.  "I'm still me.  You can talk to me like you always have.  He's not allowed to say a damn thing unless it's got to do with killing myself." I smile smugly at the other.

            Markinsen sighs.  Audibly.

            "Mom's freaking out." He shrugs, "You do love her, right?  You're just mad?  'Coz she loves you.  A lot.  Proud, too."

            I reach up and ruffle his hair, savoring the fact that he's here.  I was wrong on that account…I wasn't on everything else.  So far.  "I do love her, J.T.  Because she gave me life.  But that doesn't mean I have to like her."

            He understands, "Dad wanted me to tell you he wants to visit."

            "He won't."

            "I know." It's whispered, "Megan called the other day to tell Mom and Dad you were sick.  He sat there with the paper asking if you'd decided to mature and come to Mom's birthday party."

            Did I call it or what?  I know them like the fucking back of my hand, "Figured he'd say that."

            "You deserve better, bro."

            My eyes whip up and I see it.  I see that tendril from my own youth; verbally beat into him over years of hearing our father's drivel about excellence.  "No, I don't.  You do." I draw him close, hugging him awkwardly over the silver-metal railing, "Don't turn out like me.  Don't.  Please, god, don't turn out like me."

            My hands move, pushing him back.  There's a question in my gaze, I know and he answers it quietly, "Used to.  A long time ago.  Malcolm caught me at school a year ago.  Haven't done it since."

            Fuck our goddamn father.  Fuck me for not realizing my little brother is…me.

            I've messed up so many people.  Anna, Matt, Blaise, Meg, Gabbie, Jude.  There are tears on my face, dripping down my cheeks to the sheets.  Somehow I manage to get up.

            And run like the wind to the bathroom.  I don't bother with the door.  Instead, I focus all my energy on not drowning in toilet water while I throw up the half-digested pasta, bile.  It's all pink.  I don't know if it's because of my ulcers or the tomato sauce from earlier.

            Someone puts a cold washcloth on my forehead, holding it there as I lean over my porcelain god and throw up again.  "Okay, Tim.  Don't try to stop it.  You'll only choke." Meg coaxes me, needlessly.

            Second wave empties me of my ability to sit up straight, but I don't slump forward as I thought I would because H has returned and he's got my shoulders.

            He's got my back, my best friend's at my side to guard.

            I have hurt them so badly.  I never had the right.  "I wanna die, Meg." I croak out, "I wanna die so bad." The tears are back and they're thick, sparkling in the light.

            She moves instantaneously, "I know."

            My face is buried into her shoulder, and I plead, "Make the thoughts go away."

            Because I can't stop them.  Stray thoughts in the back of my mind, always there but never loud enough to interfere with my surface thoughts.  Now they're like white noise in my ears.

            My best friend hugs me closer.

            No one speaks.  Because they don't know what to say.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com

Aphy: You're not weird.  Hope this chapter wasn't an overall let down.  It's more of a filler between the previous chapter and the next couple.  And I think I'm going to get him a dog when he's released.

csisk8rchica: Thank you.  And it's a good thing you've got hope for him.

silverrain: Also, thank you.  Intense is my middle name.  (not really, but we'll pretend.)

trin: :-D  Have I fulfilled your desire for more?

trinity: Hum…now don't taunt the author, but are you and trin the same person?  Don't confuse me!  Confusion results in a loss of mind, and, therefore, a loss of writing ability.  Anyways, you and my psych both.  He's afraid I'll go off somewhere and…indulge.  So little faith.

Raven: Didn't forget à Again, I love your e-mails because they get my butt in gear to write.  Otherwise I sit on the couch and let my butt expand.  So I respectfully ask you to keep 'em coming.  :-D


	8. The WoundDresser

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Eight: The Wound-Dresser

-*-*-

            Horatio and Megan come visit everyday they are allowed for the next six days after my admittance, always bringing me things from Gabbie.  Messages that remind there's someone who doesn't need to be abandoned as I have been in the past; journals and magazines keeping me up-to-date.

            My mother comes too.

            And I wish she wouldn't.

            Because she's trying to tell Andrew how to do his job, which doesn't help anything – except further prove that I have to be institutionalized for her to pay any attention to me.

            "Mrs. Speedle!" Codyn slams something down, a chart probably, on the counter down the hall.  He yells so loud _everyone_ can hear him, and several people appear in their doorways.  I do the same, if only to watch them fight over me of all people.  It's oddly gratifying.

            Meg's trying to pull me back into my room, yet I yank from her grasp.  I can't hear them.  I have to know what they're saying.  Need to know what they're saying about me.

            Walking forward, their voices get clearer…

            "I will not restrain him again because he's afraid of being held down for prolonged periods of time.  I will not up his dosages because he doesn't do well with meds to begin with." His eyes narrow.  Drew's pissed, "Do not tell me how to handle my patients.  You have not been here for the last _decade_ of his life when he needed you, when he would spend the night in this ward and _cry_ for you."

            Damnit.  He shouldn't have said that.

            I manage to fly almost; catch her by her arms, as she goes for his throat, "No, Lauryn!" My hands clamp down tight on her biceps.

            She stills beneath my touch, "Tim."

            "Speed." I correct her.  She's lost the right to call me by my first name, even if she were the one to give me that moronic thing.

            "Timothy." She tries again.

            Now I'm pissed.

            "It's Speed, Lauryn." I raise my voice, after I invade her personal space; my nose is within inches of her own.

            She raises an appendage, backhands me across the face and leaves my right cheek stinging from the blow.  Then my mother becomes horrified at her actions.  She stares at her hands, eyes progressively getting wider when mom forces herself to turn her gaze to me.

            "Feel better?" I ask.  I've been wondering when she'd explode at me, though I did provoke her with a grievous misuse of her first name, a massive disrespect in her naïve little world of Italian traditions.

            "I'm sorry, honey." She whispers and moves away from me.

            I see it in her eyes.  The truth apparent, "No.  You're not."

            Megan's reappeared, her own eyes huge like Hitler's ego, and Horatio's standing behind her, "Tim, go with H.  I need to have a few words with your mother."

            Fuck.  That doesn't sound good.  At all.

            A passing glance and I grab my boss's hand, before letting him lead me away.  The scream starts when we're mid-way down the corridor.  High pitched, feminine voices.  Taunts, anger, dagger-tipped words.  Screaming about who caused what pain; who left me alone to grow up without guidance.  Bitter statements by angry people.

            Meanwhile, I've managed to get into bed and curl onto my side.  I do not want to hear this.  My redheaded friend rubs my back.  I start crying, openly and without any second thoughts.  Something I've rarely done before that damned letter.

            Drew finally steps in to calm them, judging by the quiet now filling this section of the ward.  I sniff like a tiny hiccupping babe, strands of a Walt Whitman poem threading through my brain, "I want to go home." There's longing in my voice.

            Pleasepleaseplease.

            "Soon, Speed.  A few more days." He takes his hand away, replaced by my best friend's now that she's returned.  He nods at her as though he thinks her actions were noble, "You remember the dispo day we were talking about in the lab?"

            I wipe my mouth; sit up, "Yeah.  Made the final decision?"

            "We did." The edges of his eyelids crinkle, "Now.  I know you were planning on requesting the assignment.  So I came up with another deal.  And it's really simple."

            I cock my head, and he continues.

            "You do everything that the staff here asks you to do from now until the night before we have the dispo and I'll make sure you're in the truck."

            And I cannot fight that.  I want to leave now, but he's offering me something – a chance to go back to work.  Wonder how he managed to keep me from being fired.

            Nod, "Promise?" I sound like a fucking teenager.

            "I promise." He runs a hand through my hair.  I guess he's figured out that it's the only thing that puts me into a deep sleep.  Which I loathe but I will admit I need.

            My eyes close and I feel my mother come in, quietly, like the Silent Death.

            Only then do I notice that she is alone, that my brother has not come today, "Um…Jude?"

            "He was sleeping when I left.  I thought it would be best if I didn't wake him."

            Low blow, Mommy dearest, low blow.  "Just say it!  Go on, Lauryn!  Say 'Speed, you're a bad influence on him so I sent him home to your _bastard_ father.'" I spit out.

            "He didn't go home!" She tells me, working hard to not yell or scream because Meg will send her away for the time being.

            I'm tired of this dance, so I turn away from her and face my best friend.

            "Goddamnit, Timothy!  I'm your mother.  Don't you turn away from me!" She scolds me, seeming to forget that my best friend is still in the room.  The younger of the two women glares.

            And then Lauryn's taken away by the left wrist.  I don't know why, but I feel protected with my redheaded boss and Megan nearby.

            Wait a second.  Did I just say 'I feel'?  I immediately look at my arms and track fingers over my hips.

            "Speed?" The aforementioned boss trains a questioning gaze on me, "What's the matter?"

            There's got to be a cut, a burn, a scratch some place…must be.  Can't feel if I haven't cut.  "Do you see it?  Where is it?"

            "Where's what?" He catches my wandering hands, "I don't know what you're looking for if you don't tell me."

            I reply simplistically, "I felt something."

            "You're supposed to feel.  It's a part of being human." He informs, as Codyn walks in and I remember that Chris Markinsen is sitting in his customary chair by the door, "Right?"

            "I'll agree to that." The doctor nods, then, "Do you want me to call your therapist?"

            Shrugging, "I guess."

            Why, oh, why did I say that?  Tell him no, you asshole!

            But it's too late and the elder man is gone, probably in a dead trot to the nurse's station at the end of the hall.  Why do I perpetually screw myself?  'Cause now it's getting frustrating.

            H's hand goes to one shoulder, "Keep that up, buddy." He's sincere and I hope that maybe I can get out of here earlier than he's already promised.  I won't ask now, though.  I'll wait until tomorrow when he first gets here before he heads off to work.  When he's a bit more chipper.

            Meg leans onto the doorframe, "Well, since Juni is on her way, I think I'll take this one and go hunt you down some lunch.  Maybe some fries and chicken.  That work for you?"

            "Yeah." I sigh, and she grimaces.  She goes, however, and leaves me with Chris for the indeterminable moments before the therapist shows up, "When are you going away?"

            "When they decide you're no longer a danger to yourself." He replies, indifference in his voice as he flops his sports magazine down on the table beside his seat.

            "I'm not a fucking danger to myself." I retort.  His eyes roll when I curse.  I continue, "Have I tried at all since you've shown up?  No.  Why would I start now?"

            He shrugs, "I don't know, Speed.  I've been doing this job for about seven years now and I've never been able to come up with a reasonable response to that question.  I cannot judge everything that someone thinks or how their logic works."

            "So it comes down to that _no one_ trusts me.  Not my friends or my mother or the staff."

            "We trust you.  To be openly hostile because you're upset, to do something that could cause you harm.  You're sick, Tim.  We want to help you, but you're trying so hard to push us away." He shifts, stands, "You don't think we trust you.  Well, you have not given us a reason thus far to _trust_ that you won't partake in self-injury or any other destructive behavior."

            In smaller words – yes, Tim, we don't trust you because you've proven to be unsafe on your own.  We won't trust you until you're a smiling little ball of fucking energy; bouncing off the walls and chanting over and over 'I love myself!'.

            Not.  Gonna.  Happen.

            "Fuck you, Chris."

            "Tim." He scolds, "Listen, I obviously overheard the conversation with Lt. Caine.  It's a good deal.  You get to go back to work, like you've been begging, and will be switched to outpatient therapy.  Not to mention that while you were sleeping he told Ms. Donner that this won't be put into your record because he's taking from your unused sick days that you've apparently racked up.  He hasn't told any of his superiors where you are, and is risking his job by keeping information from them."

            "I knew it!" I sit straight up, "I knew this little vacation would get me fired."

            "If someone else finds out about it, yes.  But as of right now, it seems your boss has all bases covered."

            Which he can't do for long.  Eventually, Calleigh or Eric will let it slip, but if what Markinsen is saying is correct, then…

            "He obviously has a lot of faith in you."

            "Yeah.  I think they both do."

            There's a tap on the door, and the raven-haired woman sticks her head into the room, "Chris.  Out." She orders and he goes, "Hey, there.  Andrew called me.  Want to tell me what happened?" She asks calmly, like she did four days ago when she met me and made me show her all the scars on my body.

            "I…uh…I…" A give up, lift my arm to display the cuts from days ago, "I felt and…it wasn't…wasn't from a cut." I slam a hand into my head, "Stop stuttering!"

            Juni, Zen master, waggles a finger at me, "None of that now.  You're stuttering because you're nervous."

            "If you say 'you're only human', I swear I'll jump out the window." The heavy-dark joke makes her narrow her eyes at me.

            "Actually I was going to say that you're entitled.  But since you put it so eloquently, we'll go with that."

            "Why is it that you can accept that I make those jokes, but if I were to say that to anyone else, they'd say I were suicidal?" I have to ask.  Everyone else freaks out when I talk about death.  Nevermind that it's my job and I've already buried people I loved.

            She leans back in the social worker's chair, "I don't know.  Why do you think they do that?"

            "Don't start with the psycho-analytical crap, Juni."

            "Hey, I went to school for many years to learn all that psycho-analytical crap." A blithe smile, "So let's talk about a little while ago."

            Resisting the urge to scream, I choose to just tell her what happened, "I didn't do anything to myself and I felt."

            "Felt what?" She asks, her blue eyes watching me with years of being taught to take in everything about a person.  Much like I was taught to observe a crime scene or a suspect at an interrogation.  Freaky.

            It's my turn to shrug, "Protected."

            "Really?  By who?"

            "Horatio.  Meg." My ears fill with white noise, "They've been here.  No one's ever stayed around this long after they found out."

            The noise clears, and I hear her tell me, "What does that tell you?"

            I think, "That they really _aren't_ going to leave me like the others have."

            "See?  Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" She rises, "I know the Lieutenant's daughter has been sending you things.  What do you think of that?"

            Snorting back the truth, bottling it into my gut, "Gab's the same.  She's not leaving me."

            "Good boy." She pats my arm, and I glare.  I don't know how I end up with the snarky bastards in the ward, but I really cannot complain 'coz I wouldn't want the kiss-ass ones anyway, "Do you want to talk about this morning?  Dr. Codyn was telling me when he called me down that there was an argument between he and your mother."

            I fiddle with my blanket, smooth out a crease in my sweatpants.  Basically do anything that means I don't have to look up at the woman, "Lauryn's a bitch.  There's nothing else to say." I shrug.

            It's a lie.  There is more to say.  Like no matter how much I try to fight and stick with my hatred, I cannot stop feeling sick inside every time I'm mean to her.  I'm so fucked up.  Nearly thirty years of being verbally berated and left to learn everything on my own, yet I still need my mom.

            "Nice try.  I'm not stupid." She leans her elbows onto the bed's edge, "The truth, thank you."

            So I look away, "I want her to be my mother, not my social worker.  And she's trying to be both at once, which just doesn't mesh well."

            "You know what I think?"

            "Am I telepathic?"

            She shakes her head, "I think your mother's having a lot of trouble accepting that part of your self-hatred stems from your childhood.  I think that makes her feel like she's failed you and your brother, so she's falling back on what she knows."

            "Why do you have to make so much sense?" I let myself to slam back onto the mattress and stare straight to the ceiling.

            She must smile; I can hear the mirth in her speech, "Well, that's my job." I hear her groan and stretch, a tap of shoes while she moves to that space between the door and the chair, "Anything else you want to talk to me about?"

            "Not really." I reply and wave her away, while my friends return with a good amount of food on gray plastic trays.

            "I got fries and a sandwich for you." She passes off the turkey and swiss on rye, "I couldn't remember if you liked lemonade more than ice tea, so I got both."

            I smile at the fact that Megan knows me as well as she does.  Like Anna.  Except I'd never date my mentor.  They both look at me oddly; I only grin more.  Because I've looked up and there's Jude, looking a little less like me by being dressed in new jeans and a plain black shirt.

            "New clothes?"

            He nods while he strolls in and leans against my bed, picks at my side dish, "Mom took me out shopping.  She bought you some things, too." He's obviously tired, and I wonder why if he was still sleeping this morning.  Or better yet – how the hell did he get here?

            "Please tell me you didn't walk here."

            "No.  I took a bus." He scarfs another fry, "I don't do walking.  You know that."

            I choke down another bite, before I tell him, "Exercise is a good thing.  It's your friend."

            "When are you coming home?" J.T. asks after a period of murky silence.

            Fuck.  How the hell do I explain to him that I'm not ever going to New York again?  Miami is home now and I have no reason to go back.  Well, I have one.  But as much as I love my brother, I just cannot return to all that pain.  To my father.

            "It's like this, bro.  You remember when I left?" He admits he does with a wave of his hand, "Well, the day I did, I promised myself I wouldn't go back there.  Because I can't just walk into the house and pretend to be happy like I used to."

            He looks away, "Point taken." I knew he'd understand that.  One day, I'll tell him the rest.

            "But you know you can always come stay in Miami with me." Catch his gaze, and see the content harbored there, "Whenever you want."

            "Dad would be mad." He shivers, but I know that while he fears our father, neither he nor I were abused.  Neglected, yelled at, told we were worthless.  But Cesario would commit a mortal sin before he laid a hand on his boys.

            "J.T., don't worry about Dad, k?"

            "Kay."

            Horatio leans over to whisper something to Meg.  She deflects him, "Hey, you wanna know – ask him."

            "What?" I grouch out.

            The redhead looks at my brother, "What's the T stand for?"

            "Taren.  Prissy weird name, but at least it's better than Jairus." He laughs while I grab for him.

            "Evil…son of a…"

            For some odd reason, I'm really not mad.  Normally I'd be pissed off beyond words that my middle name has been divulged, but not so this time.

            Some thing has changed in me.

            I don't want it to.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com

-*-*-

I know this chapter's brief and boring.  It is, like the previous chapter, pretty much filler to get us to the Dispo Day chapters.

Raven: Still enjoying this?  :-D

Trinity: Soon he'll be out.  Promise.  (I hate them too!)

Aphy: Yeah…a dog.  Maybe I'll name it Amish.  He he.


	9. Here the Frailest Leaves of Me

Author's Note: I gave Officer Hollis from Dispo Day a first name.  Wasn't mentioned in the episode (at least I don't think so); came up with one instead.

And I so lied earlier…one problem I have is that I don't plan stories, they are always WIPs and seem to just write themselves.  I'm just the fingers clicking the keys.  So while I had _thought_ this chapter would be Dispo Day only, I had some loose ends to tie up.  :::Author runs and hides:::  It's gonna be one more chapter.  :::Gives best 'I-feel-so-guilty' looks and peeks out to see readers with rotten fruit:::  I'm sorry!

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Nine: Here the Frailest Leaves of Me

-*-*-

            "I don't know about that, Lieutenant." Juni tells Horatio, as my eyes slit open.  Both are feet from the edge of my bed; both think I'm still slumbering in the orange-red light of the new day that has dawned.  I'm obviously not.

            He sighs, "I'm hesitant about it too, but he needs a weapon in case there's a problem."

            And by problem, he means there could be an ambush.  Since Ray Caine's death, he's always worried when we dispo, which I doubt anyone could blame him for.  He's lost those he's loved, like me, and I know in my heart he just does not want to lose one more.

            The therapist nods, "Understandable, and I know he isn't trying to kill himself.  He's, at the core, a cutter and won't deviate from that.  I'm just still afraid of what could possibly happen if he should become as fearful as he did when you first attempted to care for him."

            "That's why the person who'll be driving the truck, Officer Hollis, I think will be a good choice, because they went through the academy with each other.  I'm hoping that if he's got someone he knows with him, Speed will be alright."

            I blink and stir, stretch my arms, that way they won't know I was listening in on the conversation.  I want my gun back, though not to kill myself – to remind me that the boss has protected my job for me and there is a place for me to go to when this is all over.

            Megan leans over from behind me to kiss my temple, "Nice try.  I knew you were awake." She whispers just loud enough for me to hear.

            Of course you did, because you always know.  Know everything and nothing.  And you're always here now.  And you're really not going to leave, right?  I want to tell her that, but I refrain.

            Instead, sleepily, "Oh, but you love me, don't you, Meg?"

            Guilt is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

            "With all my heart.  Forever, Timmy." She answers, and stands back looking a little world-weary, as though she has not yet slept or eaten.

            "Go eat." I instruct.

            Her eyes crinkle and the corner of her mouth tugs up, "No problem." She's off and I realize she must've interpreted that statement to mean go _get _something to eat.  I really should start being more specific.

            Exasperated, Juni Pared turns to me and says, "You have group therapy at nine.  Please participate today.  The more you do so, the sooner I can fathom letting you out of my sight."  It's a soft spoken statement that I know pleases my boss.

            I glance at the clock, finding it's eight-oh-four, "Whatever you say, Oh-She-Who-Controls-My-Life."

            H smiles, as does the woman before she exits, leaving the two of us alone.  He moves closer, grips my bedrail, "Gabbie wanted me to tell you that she's almost ready."

            "Tell her I said good."

            He's clueless.  Curious considering his innate skill from the years of searching for the barely perceptible evidence at crime scenes, but then again – no father, as doting as he is, would want to waste any time thinking that their child would be hurting themselves.  It's not something that's possible in their world.

            The expression on his face tells me as much, so I wave my hand in a 'you'll-find-out-soon-enough' gesture.  Which he obeys, lays his elbows on my bed such as Juni did before and soothes his conscious while continuing to speak.  Whether he's trying to talk to me or the blanket is questionable.

            "Megan slept at my house last night.  She hasn't been able to find an apartment."

            "Then tell her to go to mine.  My rent's paid up for the next two months." I shrug, then look away, "So…um…Pat Hollis?"

            He grins, prosaic, "Sneaky." It's remarked quietly with a slight shake of his head, "Yes, Pat Hollis will be driving the truck."

            I nod.  I like Pat; he's quiet but kind and his wife is a sweetheart.  His love for relaying stories about his kids is fantastical.  I think I know more about little son Michael and his baby girl Kayla than I know about myself.

            My best friend returns with steaming scrambled eggs and orange juice.  Speaks not one word as she watches me chew my way through the meal.

            "Meg?"

            She sighs and chews her lip, a sure sign that she's worried, "Your mom…she, uh…well…" Slowly her lips form words and I hear them, sharp and true, "She decided that she needed to go home.  Jude and I went to H's house, so he's still here, but your mom's in New York."

            Who called it?  Who fucking _called_ it?

            I knew it was only a matter of time and my once-disintegrating hatred reappears in force.

            My features must darken or I flinched or something, as now the brunette is leaning into my line-of-sight, "What?" I implore.

            "You're upset." She shrinks back.

            Well, duh.  "Only because people didn't listen to me when I said she would leave once it was convenient.  And my dad's gonna get involved when she tells him what's happened."

            I know she's going to ask about what my father's intentions will become upon his discovery of the Miami goings-on, yet she's blocked from doing so.  Juni's reappeared and she's got that look in her eyes that tells me we're going to have a little chat before I'm taken down to group.

            Both of my friends go, taking the ever-present Markinsen with them, and I cozy into the pillows.  Readying myself for the coming conversation, which I know will be draining on her and on me.  The topic is obvious to me because I am already well-aware of her hesitation to allow me to be released.

            "Okay.  I'm going to be straightforward.  I know you overheard the discussion I was having with Horatio this morning, so you know that I'm worried about your weapon being returned to you."

            "Yeah."

            She squints, "Would you like to defend your boss' decision?" She offers, and I smile at her choice of words – because I do it on a daily basis at work.  Where the higher ups are getting tired of him and his style, always ignoring that the redhead gets the job done.

            "Let's see…if I get my gun back, you're going to be reluctant to allow me to escape this place of philosophical misdeeds.  If I don't get my gun back, H is not letting me in that truck." I release my features from the sour glare I had held, "I think I'm gonna go with you being upset."

            "So you see no problem with the fact that you'll be fresh out of _here_ and will be handed a potential dangerous item that your therapist disapproves of." She theorizes…and sadly, it is quite the truth.

            "Nope.  's good."

            Huffing, shrugging, then sighing, the woman sits back into Chris' vacated chair.  She rubs her forehead with one hand and brushes her fingers through her hair, "I really don't think you should have a firearm, Tim.  And that's the recommendation I'm going to give to Horatio.  I doubt that you are ready to have it returned to you."

            Anger rising, rising.  So I stay quiet because I know the minute I open my mouth, I'll start screaming and I want to leave this place and never come return so I'm going to have to suck it up for now.  Pretend I'm agreeing on some level.

            "Come on." She eventually stands after studying me for a solid few minutes, "Group starts in a few minutes and I'd rather you weren't late."

            "Fuck group.  I'm here voluntarily.  I want out." I declare, using that one little phrase.

            She tenses, "Tim…"

            "I committed myself to this hellhole!" It's screamed and I shouldn't have done that.

            Meg has rushed into the room with Drew and Horatio right behind her; my boss stares at me, "If you think I'll let you anywhere near CSI if you leave now, you're mistaken."

            "Then fucking fire me, alright!  I'm tired of this place." I declare and start to heave out of the comfortable, mushy bed, but H's strong hands grab me to hold me in place.  Struggling, I manage to kick him in the shin and punch his chest.  Though he doesn't even lessen his iron grip.

            I stop fighting, and relax my tightened muscles, tired.

            "No, because I know you _need_ that job as much as you need people who will care about you.  So go to the group therapy for now and stay a little longer.  Maybe I can get you out the morning before." He tells me with my head on his chest, that goddamn gold necklace pressing into my forehead and definitely leaving an imprint.

            The thought occurs to me that I could turn all this attention away from me at this moment with a few words.

            Yet I can't.  I won't hurt Gabbie; betray her so I can be alone and drive them away.  No.  She deserves to have time to gather her wits so she will not end up chained in a ward with people looking to drug her left and right.  She's too bright and too…Gabriella for that.

            So I shift to my feet and balance my weight better, "Why the fuck do you have to know everything?"

            "Same reason Megan wanted to train you to be a CSI – I notice." He replies, releases me, and pats my shoulder.

            There's an opening right there for me to interject.  Perhaps H _should_ know.  I mean it _is_ his child and if it were Blaise, I'd have wanted to know…  Still.  I can't.  I can't do that now.  No, I can wait to tell the details until she's ready to face the raw facts of what we have done to ourselves. "I am never coming back here ever again once I'm out."

            "That would be a good goal." Pared nods, obviously unfazed now that I've bent once again to their will.

            "Shut up, Juni!" I spit at her, before she grasps my hand and fixes me with a stare almost akin to Horatio's, "Fucking shut up!  You don't know _anything_."

            "Sorry.  That isn't going to happen." The therapist tells me, "And it'll be a lot easier if you remember that no matter what you call me, no matter what you try to make me think – I know you're only trying to shove me away like you try to do with every other person you have let near.  It won't work, Tim."

            A headshake and then she's leading me away with the trite, worn faces staring after.

            I understand the pain I'm putting them through.  I do.  I'm not going to pretend that I don't realize how hard Meg's fighting to keep her head above the drowning water of my emotions or that Horatio's more exhausted than I've ever seen him and that really isn't my place.  I won't ignore that my brother visits wearing new clothes and they're already torn, decidedly from fighting.

            I'm shoved bodily into one of the lounging rooms, where the threadbare chairs are arranged in a circle and for the most part, occupied.

            "Hey, Tim." The boy from across the hall, who's name I still do not know, waves me over, "I saved you a seat."

            "Thanks, man."

            He smiles happily – he's here for a suicide attempt, and searches for any kind words.  I always offer him something because I remember being as young as he was and wanting nothing more than falling off the face of the fucking planet.

            "So I see Tim has finally decided to join us.  We're happy to see you." The group therapist, Michael, is the most annoying man I have ever met.  I'm absolutely sure that he's doing some sort of drug.

            "It's Speed."

            "We don't use street names here."

            Oh, I'm gonna hit him.  Square in the face.  "It's my nickname, asshole.  My _wife_ gave me it." I make that come out of my mouth as I stand and prepare to allow my hand connect with jaw.

            A small feminine fist closes around my forearm, "I will explain to Michael later about your name, okay?  Just sit down." Juni half-orders, half-requests while I force myself to relax.

            My frayed nerves ice down after a few minutes.  I plop back into the chair.

            The idiot looks at me with a smug smile, "Your wife?  Would you like to talk about her?  I notice she hasn't come to visit you."

            "That's because she died ten years ago!" I snort back, with a massive bit of venom rope-laced around each syllable, "She died after she gave birth to my _son_ who would've been, oh, nine years old _today_, except I buried him when he was an infant." By the end of my outburst, I'm hissing and everyone's staring at me.

            He shrinks back in light of this new information.

            "Never thought to ask why I was here, eh Mike?  Whaddya assume?  I was a druggie because of what my _boss_ calls me?" I'm in full scathing mode, tired of these endless questions that bore into me like a drill through wood.

            "What I assumed was that you were on suicide watch, but I didn't know why." The blond blood-rushes back into his training, "How about you tell me why you are here?  That way I will not be able to assume anything about you in the future."

            A roll of eyes.  Because there's not going to be much more time spent in this mouthpiece of hell.

            I could easily blow him off; Juni's left.  But I want out, "I got caught cutting.  I tried to jump off my balcony and Horatio got upset."

            "Oh.  Well.  What made you feel as though you needed to hurt yourself?"

            It's going to be a long session.

-*-*-

            Three days more and they finally decide to let me out, let me wear normal clothes that have zippers and buttons and drawstrings.

            Megan drives through the streets doing the limit while enjoying the soft breeze and hazy sunlight.  She had circled the hospital twice as if she's making sure that I really do want out.  It appeased Horatio when she took off, headed for CSI and my apprehensive colleagues.

            "They didn't come to see me." I state, recalling back to the days previous.

            "Eric and Calleigh were so busy, Speed.  They had to work separate cases everyday and were exhausted when I sent them home.  They couldn't visit."

            I nod, "How's Gab?"

            "She's okay.  Said something about 'next Saturday' when she left this morning for classes.  Oh, and I think that I finally found a boyfriend I approve of.  Although I know he's been getting into fights when he takes her out."

            "He probably doesn't understand that whistling at a girl is a form of flattery here and tries to beat the crap outta whoever it does it.  He is still from New York and that is not something we do there.  Well, not in polite company." I shrug, leaning heavily on the door.  My eyes pierce his, "I'm going to the dispo, right?"

            "I promised you, didn't I?"

            A question with a question.  Creepy.

            The parking lot of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab is filled with cars and Hummers; Yelena Salas and Detective Sevilla are standing outside the building itself with fake smiles.  H's nephew and godson stands between them, playing with some sort of toy.

            "How's ma boy?" Adele questions.

            "I'm fine."

            The phrase has returned.  Meg's eyes widen as she departs from the vehicle and hears that phrase pop out through my chapped lips, yet she's silent.  Until a wispy, "Timmy.", floats across the distance between us.

            "Well, there's a surprise for you inside." Salas exclaims with content joy, "Calleigh's waiting for you in the Trace Lab."

            The two women usher me through the glass doors and into the elevator, giggling all the while.  Both the redhead and my best friend exchange nervous stares.  And when I'm dragged into the manufactured coolness of the dim-lit room, there's a shuffle of 'shh!' passed around.

            "Oh, no." I mutter.

            A couple dozen people all jump out and scream surprise.  There's red ribbon in Cal's hair, blue wrapping paper turned into a dunce hat-cone for Delko.  Laura and Tyler are covered in neon green and neon orange silly string, while one of the other techs, Jonathan, wears a plastic table cloth with a caricature of me on the front.

            "Uh, thanks, guys."

            It's forced out and they know it.  They have to hear the strain in my voice as I speak.  They ignore it, hand me small gifts.  Some are wrapped in birthday paper and some are hastily covered in newspaper or plastic bags.

            "Welcome home.  We missed you _so_ much.  Eric's just not as good at fibers as you." The blonde girl smiles.

            "Thanks, Cal.  Glad to see you muddled through."

            She hugs me tight, and I let my arms go up to grab her.  She whispers, "I missed you so much." There's a sniffle and I kiss that patch of skin behind her ear.

            "Missed you too."

            The Cuban-Russian man takes his turn, hugs me for less time but with just as much care.

            "So who's idea was this?" I ask merely to break the ice before it has had a chance to form.  I've grown tired of silence, weary of it because I think about the coming days and I really, _really_ do not want to place false wonder what might never be.

            "Mine." Jude smiles, walking forward, with the red-haired girl standing beside him.  They're both grinning stupidly.

            But it's easy to see that my dear brother's calmed down a little since I saw him yesterday and made it clear that he can't keep fighting with people.  He's actually wearing clothes that are not torn, dirtied, bloodied, or destroyed by any other means.  In fact, he's covered in _nice_ dress items.  A button down shirt, a pair of ill-fitting slacks, black patent shoes.

            I can do no more than smile genuinely.  He's too happy to tell him that I hate being put on the spot and he looks like I have always hoped he would.

            "Well, hopefully this doesn't last too long.  We've got to start getting ready for dispo." H cuts in, a tell all look on his features.

            He's becoming more like Megan – he knows when I want something or don't want it, when I'm hungry but not saying it.  It might've been disturbing before.  Now it's just a little weird.  And I like it more than I ever thought possible.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com

Raven: I purposely didn't describe Lauryn Speedle because I'm not really sure what I see her looking like.  I know she's definitely somewhat like Tim with the dark hair and those haunted eyes, but not much else.  The dispo chapters…well as you can see from the above lines, it's starting.  I'm not giving up any info on those.  They may take a few days, but I sprained/fractured my ankle so I'm not going anywhere.  ('Specially since I had my last day of school June 13.)  Ya' know – I don't know how I come up with this stuff.  My favorite way to explain what I think is a line from **Empire Records**: "Who knows where thoughts come from?  They just appear!".  And Juni's staying.  She'll be in next chapter after the shoot out.  Tee hee…my friend's first name is Jairus.

Trinity: :::Chases a fleeing Tim::: Get back here, you!  You're mine! :::Stops and huffs air:::  :-D  He's free!  He's free!  I'm going to definitely get him a dog; if you have a name recommendation, I'm listening.  And I'll get him some friends.  Maybe one will be called Trin…Raven…

Aphy: I have to stop and start a lot, so I know what you mean.  Lots of difficult stuff – to read and to write.

Saryn: Thank you.

Khylara: Thank you, too.  That was the reaction I was going for.  BTW – It took me two days to realize that you're the melmast from the Yahoo!Group.  Silly author.


	10. To The Garden The World

-*-*-

Ancillae

Chapter Ten: To The Garden The World

-*-*-

            "Okay, boys and girls.  Calleigh, Eric – go test the drugs we're disposing.  Speed, come with me." Horatio orders, slipping back into boss-mode.  He turns, scuffles from the room.

            I remain.

            "Hey, you.  You wanted to be in the truck.  Go with him or I will happily take you home." Megan orders, provoking her other former colleagues to eye her suspiciously.  She mouths, 'I have to talk to them alone, Timmy.' to me, which sends me on my merry way.  I'd rather _not_ face her wrath today.  Not when I'm so close.  So close to a semblance of normalcy.

            It's easy to determine where my superior has gone to – he's hiding in his office.  I can see him through the glass.

            So I trek, heavy-footed to the destination and choke on my fears that he's not going to give me my gun.  No, he promised and H keeps his promises. I let myself into his office without warning.

            And immediately get an earful.

            "You do _anything with this that is not proper behavior, I switch you to the Hummer or I send you back here.  You do anything with this to harm yourself, I've been ordered by Juni to return you to her care.  And if you so much as make a joke about that…" His eyebrows rise but his voice lowers, "I __will suspend you.  Understand?"_

            "I got it, H.  I promise I won't do anything wrong."

            Gimme my gun…come on…just gimme it and let this be done with.

            "Alright." He shifts and walks to his desk, opens the top drawer, where it is secured inside my holster still as though no one even checked to see if it was loaded.  But that probably is a good thing, considering there is one round in the chamber.  He probably would have taken it the wrong way, if he had found it, because I've been told repeatedly to not do so.  Being a bit suicidal wouldn't have helped that either.

            He grips my wrist in a gesture of unwanted comfort, "This is the only thing you are doing today.  When we get back from the incinerator, you're staying in the lab running evidence.  No field work for right now."

            I'm not going to argue.  I'm not.  I'm back at work where I wanted to be – where I _belong_ – so I'm just not going to argue about how protective he's being.

            Changing the subject somewhat, "When do we leave?"

            "As soon as Calleigh and Eric finish testing." He replies, lacking hesitation, "Juni wants to see you at the end of the day.  And on Wednesday, she wants to see you and Jude together."

            Really?  Nice to know my fucking therapist can volunteer my family for sessions with me.  Who's next?  Gabbie?  My heart thrills in my chest – that's going to be a possibility come Saturday.

            Can't think of that now, Tim.  Keep your mind on the job.

            "Where's Pat Hollis?" I ask to avoid screaming about being able to take care of myself.

            "Mentally, still in bed with his wife." The drippy content voice from behind me informs, causing me to whip around to see my friend standing in the doorway, "Physically, I'm trying to remain standing."

            "You're jokes get sadder and sadder everyday." I toss at him.

            "Oh, and yours are so much better?  Lemme tell ya' – don't quit your day job."

            H whistles to get our attention, "I have to do more paperwork before we leave, so do me a favor – get out." He moves to his desk and settles into his snug chair.

            I do what he says, parting with Pat for a few minutes to go in search of my coworkers, but find they are busily hunched over bags of cocaine and meth.  So I switch and seek out my best friend, who's sitting in the breakroom with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, "Meg?"

            She grins, wanly, "Are you sure about this?  You've only been out of the hospital for a few hours, you've got to want to…"

            "Do my job." I finish for her, "I need to work.  I need to be here, Megan.  This is where I am supposed to be.  And H doesn't even have me working an actual case anyway.  All I'm to do is be in the truck for the dispo then come back and sit on my ass."

            I hate being idle.  It is not conducive to taking part in the non-destructive behaviors they are trying to teach me, and H knows it.  Except he's probably more afraid of leaving me unsupervised on a scene with whatever evidence there is that could possibly be destroyed, which I have to hand it to him – he's got some actual foresight into the workings of my mind.

            With nothing more to do, I sit down beside her, "I guess I should call Juni so she knows that the only thing I'm interested with my weapon is professional."

            She nods and snorts, patting me on the shoulder as she leaves the room in pursuit of Yelena Salas, who has emerged from the elevator.

            My cell phone beeps as I dial out the numbers and hear the woman pick up, "Hello."

            "What no sarcastic comment about me mothering you?" She throws at me, "No annoyance at my insecurities in reference to your choice to be discharged or my adamant request that you not be given a weapon?"

            "Not at the moment because Calleigh's coming to get me, which means I've got to get to the van.  So listen, H gave me back my gun.  I promise I have no desire to hurt myself or anyone else, okay?"

            I know that does nothing to soothe her nerves.  But that is not my desired goal, anyhow, as this call is only to appease her.  She mumbles something when my coworker reaches the room, "One sec." I tell Cal, leaching out, "Bye, Juni." Before rising and following the blonde toward the garage, while the various other people stare, whisper, and basically forget all manners to discuss my sudden return to CSI.

            "Eric and I are going to hang around here for any cases while you and H are out." She mentions.

            To take my attentions from the idiocy around me.  I nod anyway, and stop at the door.  I have to ask her, have to comprehend, "Why didn't you or Eric come see me?"

            Sighing, sniffling, "I didn't want to see you like that.  Horatio told us how you were doing…I was afraid that if we went to the hospital that we would make you worse."

            Translation: I wasn't brave enough to go there because I was afraid of you getting angry at me.

            "See ya', Calleigh." I begin to walk away from her, manage to pass to the truck when the redhead lands a hand on my shoulder.  He gives me that look of understanding mixed with a hint of anger.

            I shrug it off and shuffle open the door when he decides to speak, "You're doing good, Speed." That's all he forces out, before slipping out the garage's open door to embark the CSI Hummer currently assigned to him.

            A little random, are we?

            Pat's already comfortable behind the wheel, tapping his fingers to a song playing through the mesh-metal speakers, "Hey.  Hope you don't mind that I commandeered the radio.  Once we get going, it's gotta go kaput anyway."

            "I know."

            And now…

            "Tim, you…ah…wanna talk?"

            Of course.

            Would everyone around me please take two minutes to think before they ask stupid questions, "No.  I've been forced to do more talking in the last week than in my lifetime."

            "You sure?"

            "I am.  But I think you want to ask anyway." I fully understand the details he desires to be informed of, and I'll gladly educate him – if I could truly see something other than pity and curiosity in his eyes.

            He shakes his head, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

            "Thank you."

            The doors of the truck are slammed shut, someone pounds on them and we're moving.  The boss in point and an RMP behind us, we exit the lot to follow the pre-planned route drawn out on the map I hold tight in my fist.

            The ride is quiet.  Every so often Hollis spits out something about his kids – Mikey's three year old escapades involving a mudbath, Kayla learning to walk.  I'm not really listening enough, thought, to supply any response beyond, "That's nice, Pat." At some locus during the travel, I pull off my shirt to get my Kevlar on.

            He says nothing when he looks at me, as though inspecting my skin for injuries.  I choose to pretend that I didn't notice, redressed, and ignored my friend.

            Dispatch comes through and Horatio responds, another indeterminable stretch of silence runs through us as we head toward the intersection.  A funeral procession comes down beside us.  We let them pass and I turn to attempt to speak when the redhead's voice comes back through.

            And all hell breaks loose.

            The hearse is hit by a car, a woman starts screaming, and before my brain even has a chance to catch up, the bullets start flying.

            My gun.  Fuck.  Take it out of the holster, you fucking idiot!  Holsters…I'm keeping this thing in my pants next time.  I jack open the door, stick the gun in edge of the window frame, but the spray of ammunition is too deadly for me to even get a shot off.

            I grab Pat, who's apparently lifeless, and pull he and I from the cab to the hard gray asphalt with a hard thud.  I see Horatio race from the Hummer to the woman, when my eyesight snags the black-clad man coming toward me.  I raise the gun. Struggle away from my friend's body and the approaching armed assailant; I stop when he raises his weapon and I raise my own.

            It clicks helplessly at the murderer standing in front of me.  Oh, Christ almighty – it's jammed!

            He fires one shot, hits me in the chest and I unwillingly re-enter the blackness that is my dreams.

            Yet the unconsciousness is brief, maybe just a few seconds.  I'm not sure, all I know is I can't breathe and H is running at me, full speed yelling my nickname in that graveled voice that means he's a stone away from becoming enraged.

            I can't really hear anything; my ears ring and repeat the tense sound of the gunshot, my ribs feel like someone is tightening them within the muscles of my torso.

            Finally my ears catch up when he lays a hand on my neck and tells me to keep breathing.

            As opposed to what I've been doing for the last few minutes, which was holding my breath?  Good morning, Lieutenant, I know it's early but could you flip on your frontal lobe?!

            He screams for a rescue, and works a hand under my vest, past my still bandaged wounds, splaying it across my chest.  I know he's trying to get the pressure of the blow away from my body while working at the Velcro clasps, but it still burns excruciatingly.  It finally is ripped away, and I get in a massive gulp of air.

            Sirens fill the desolate waste land that was once our convoy.

            "Okay, Tim." He finally downshifts from overdrive, "Keep breathing, buddy." He lifts up my white undershirt, checking at the laceration on my belly to ensure it isn't bleeding and examining the already-forming bruise.

            The ambulance pulls up; I hear the screech of tires.

            Horatio grabs my arms to check them over.  The lines of scabs completely healed a day or so prior, and there are only the memory and a paper-thin white line to remind me of what I'd done.

            "Sir, please." Someone pleads.  One of the EMTs trying to get H away from me, as an oxygen mask is fitted over my nose and mouth.  A stethoscope is pressed, warm, to a spot not purple and the second emergency tech checks my pulse after I am lifted to the stretcher.

            The worried looks they wear calmly fade away and one smiles, directs his coworker, "Go check the others.  He just needs some oxygen." He looks at me, "Do you want to sit up?"

            I glare.  Do I look like I wanna sit up just yet?

            H comes into my line of sight when I tug at the mask, "Leave it on for now."

            "I'm okay." I hope he ignores the glazed eyes I'm well aware are painted into my gaze as well as the harsh breathing that causes me to pant every intake.

            He tosses a glance to the paramedic, "I think we'll be the judge of that.  Leave it on, it's an order." I hate when he pulls rank…makes me want to pull out each strand of my hair one by one.  Then he gestures to the arriving personnel, and strolls toward Hagan who tosses the CRIME SCENE tape at another officer.

            Someone yells out for information.

            Great, the Press has arrived.  Don't these people have a shred of decency in them?  I'm pretty sure Pat just _died_ and they're here like vultures for any information I may give them.  It's putrid.

            "Okay, Detective." The guy lisps, "Just going lift this up a little bit, try to get you elevated a bit." He informs me, before the head of the stretcher is pushed up to an acute angle.  He pulls a water bottle out seemingly nowhere, uncapping it and approaching me.  He shifts the mask, "Could you drink a little of this for me?"

            Remember before when I said I get ticked off easily when being treated as though I were a child?  Well, if this moron continues to treat me in this manner, that bottle's going to be relocated to somewhere a lot less pleasant.

            I rip it from him and slug down a few sips, but my chest still aches.  I can't get much down my abused esophagus.

            "Alright.  Well, I think you just narrowly avoided a trip to the ER.  Let's get you sitting up." He grasps my shoulders and gets me moving, removing the tatters of my shirt as he does so.  Once my legs dangle over the side, he quickly wraps my arm in a blood pressure cuff and finally allows me to take this fucking mask off.

            H once again is at my side, "How is he?" He asks as soon as the cuff is gone.

            "BP's 140/100." He answers, "Chest contusion from the impact of the projectile's what took the wind out of him.  If his lungs were collapsed, he'd be blue by now."

            "Okay.  Thank you." He turns to me, and I see the dark look, the way he won't look directly at me.

            "Hollis?"

            The reply is automatic, "No.  You okay?"

            "I'm fine." I respond.

            But I'm not.

            I'm not and all I want are my knives, my blades.  I need to bleed.  I _have to see the slick red substance empty out and leak away these sudden thoughts._

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com


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